“Just like him!” cried the Squire. “His appointment was for four o’clock sharp. He means to hold out against my price; that’s what he thinks to do. Let him! he won’t get the wheat at less.”
“I’d see him a jolly long way before he should have it at all,” said haughty Tod. “Do you hear, sir?”
“Hold your tongue, Joe,” was the Squire’s answer.
“Anyway, sir, Prothero gives you more trouble than all the rest of the buyers put together. He’s a stingy, close-fisted fellow.”
“But his money’s safe and sure. Prothero is a respectable man, Joe; his word’s as good as his bond.”
Half-past four, and no Prothero. The Squire began to fume a little: if he hated one thing more than another it was to be kept waiting.
“Look here, boys, I’ll send that note to your mother,” he said, taking out his pocket-book. “There’s not much chance of our going home to-night at this rate. Ring, one of you, for some paper and envelopes.”
Separating one of the notes from the roll Mr. Isaac had handed to him, he gave it to me to put up. I asked him if I should take down the number.
“I don’t think it matters, Johnny.”
But I took it down, perhaps through some unconscious instinct—for I don’t suppose I am more cautious than other people. In my pocket was a letter from Anna Whitney: and I pencilled on it the number of the note.