Corn was then at 12 shillings and 14 shillings per bushel, and Dad expected a big cheque.
Every day for nearly three weeks he trudged over to the store (five miles) and I went with him.

Each time the storekeeper would shake his head and say "No word yet." Dad could n't understand.

At last word did come.

The storekeeper was busy serving a customer when we went in, so he told Dad to "hold on a bit".
Dad felt very pleased--so did I.
The customer left.

The storekeeper looked at Dad and twirled a piece of string round his first finger, then said--"Twelve pounds your corn cleared, Mr.Rudd; but, of course" (going to a desk) "there's that account of yours which I have credited with the amount of the cheque--that brings it down now to just three pound, as you will see by the account." Dad was speechless, and looked sick.
He went home and sat on a block and stared into the fire with his chin resting in his hands, till Mother laid her hand upon his shoulder and asked him kindly what was the matter.