“We tried to look after it for your mother—the bank.”
“And the bank had two years’ corn crop on it?”
“Yes, that is, it rented it out. But crops were poor both years. And the ground is run down. There wasn’t much in it. We had to buy fertilizer and pay taxes and—”
“Was there anything in it?”
Morey looked across the table at his father’s old friend.
“Maybe—a little.”
“You have everything figured out in cents that we owe you. Shouldn’t there have been another column to show what you and the bank owes us?”
“Do I understand, sir,” exclaimed Major Carey indignantly, “that you are making charges? You don’t reckon we have taken advantage of your mother? Young man, if it hadn’t been for our bank you’d be working at day labor—”
“And I expect to,” came the quick answer. “That’s neither here nor there. You needn’t send Mr. Bradner to talk to my mother—you needn’t say anything yourself. I’ll attend to this. I never earned a dollar in my life but I can add and subtract. You’ve been mighty good to us, Major Carey, and I’m not going to pay you with thanks. How long will you give me to take up the obligations?”