"Tain't no more'n a fair price for the use of the cow six months. Ef you'll pay the ten dollars to-morrow, I'll let you have the cow six months longer on the same contrack."
"I don't see any possibility of my paying you the money, Squire Green. I haven't got it."
"Why don't you borrer somewhere?"
"I might as well owe you as another man, Besides, I don't know anybody that would lend me the money."
"You haven't tried, have you?"
"No."
"Then you'd better. I thought I might as well come round and remind you of the note as you might forget it."
"Not much danger," said Hiram Walton. "I've had it on my mind ever since I gave it."
"Well, I'll come round to-morrow night, and I hope you'll be ready. Good night."
No very cordial good night followed Squire Green as he hobbled out of the cottage—for he was lame—not—I am sure the reader will agree with me—did he deserve any. He was a mean, miserly, grasping man, who had no regard for the feelings or comfort of anyone else; whose master passion was a selfish love of accumulating money. His money did him little good, however, for he was as mean with himself as with others, and grudged himself even the necessaries of life, because, if purchased, it must be at the expense of his hoards. The time would come when he and his money must part, but he did not think of that.