``The critter's gone,'' Elihu Perkins said. `` 'Tain't no use doin' anything more.''
``The cow's dead!'' repeated Mr. Walton.
``Yes, the critter's dead!'' said Elihu. ``It was so to be, and there wa'n't no help for it. That's what I thought from the fust, but I was willin' to try.''
``Wasn't there anything that could have saved her?''
``If she could a-been saved, I could 'ave done it,'' he said. ``What I don't know about cow diseases ain't wuth knowin'.''
``I
s'pose you're right, Elihu,'' he said; ``but it's hard on me.''
``Yes, neighbor, it's hard on you, that's a fact.
What was she wuth?''
``I
wouldn't have taken forty dollars for her yesterday.''
``Forty dollars is a good sum.''
``It is to me. I haven't got five dollars in the world outside of my farm. Somehow it don't seem fair that my only cow should be taken, when Squire Green has got ten, and they're all alive and well. If all his cows should die, he could buy as many more and not feel the loss.''
``Squire Green's a close man. He could give you a cow just as well as not. If I was as rich as he, I'd do it.''
``I
believe you would, Elihu; but there's some difference between you and him.''
``Maybe the squire would lend you money to buy a cow. He always keeps money to lend on high interest.''
Mr.
Walton said: ``I must have a cow, and I don't know of any other way, but I hate to go to him.''
``He's the only man that's likely to have money to lend in town.''
``Well, I'll go.''
``Good luck to you, neighbor Walton. Well, I'll be goin', as I can't do no more good.''
Hiram Walton went into the house.
``Is she dead, Hiram?'' asked his wife.
``Yes, the cow's dead. Forty dollars clean gone,'' he said, rather bitterly.
``Don't be discouraged, Hiram. It's bad luck, but worse things might happen. The house might burn down, or -- or some of us might fall sick and die. It's better that it should be the cow.''
``You're right there; but though it's pleasant to have so many children round, we shan't like to see them starving.''
``They are not starving yet, and, please God, they won't yet a while. Some help will come to us. Where are you going, Hiram?'' she asked.
``Going to see if Squire Green will lend me money enough to buy another cow.''
Squire Green was the rich man of the town. He had inherited from his father, just as he came of age, a farm of a hundred and fifty acres, and a few hundred dollars. The land was not good, and far from productive; but he had scrimped and saved, spending almost nothing, till the little money which the farm annually yielded him had accumulated to a considerable sum. Then, too, the squire used to lend money to his poorer neighbors. He took care not to exact more than six per cent openly, but it was generally understood that the borrower must pay a bonus besides to secure the loan, which, added to the legal interest, gave him a very handsome consideration for the use of his spare funds.
The squire had one son, now in the neighborhood of thirty, but he had not been at home for several years. As soon as he attained his majority he left the homestead, and set out to seek his fortune elsewhere. So the old man was left alone, but he did not feel the solitude. He had his gold, and that was company enough.
``Is the squire at home?'' Hiram asked, at the back door.
``He's out to the barn,'' said Hannah Green, a niece of the old man, who acted as maid of all work.
``I'll go out there.''
Entering, he found the old man engaged in some light work.
``Good-morning, Squire Green.''
``Good-morning, Mr. Walton,'' returned the squire.
``How are you gettin' on?''
``I've met with a loss,'' answered Hiram Walton.
``You don't say so,'' returned the squire, with instant attention. ``What's happened?''
``My cow is dead.''
``I
hope it isn't any disease that's catchin','' said the squire in alarm, thinking of his ten.
``It would be a bad job if it should get among mine.''
``It's a bad job for me, squire. I hadn't but one cow, and she's gone.''
``Just so, just so. I s'pose you'll buy another.''
``Yes, I must have a cow. My children live on bread and milk mostly. Then there's the butter and cheese, that I trade off at the store for groceries.''
``Just so, just so. Come into the house, neighbor Walton.''
The squire guessed his visitor's business in advance, and wanted to take time to talk it over. He would first find out how great his neighbor's necessity was, and then, if he accommodated him, would charge him accordingly.
There was a little room just off the kitchen, where the squire had an old-fashioned desk. Here it was that he transacted his business, and in the desk he kept his papers. It was into this room he ushered Mr. Walton.
The squire always felt at home in this office, for it was where he derived most of his pleasure, either by putting through a shrewd deal with one of his neighbors, by gloating over his distorted ideas of success, or by going over his notes and mortgages to determine how soon he would reach another goal in his race for riches.
While the squire usually felt at ease, his victim would be very much perturbed, for he generally knew the reputation of the old man, and expected no mercy from him.
But to return to the deal which now occupied the mind of the squire.
