Sam stood leaning on a pitchfork in front of the barn
door. He was a stout man of about fifty years of age,
with an ox-like face. His countenance showed the sullen
stolidity of a man who spoke little but listened always,
of a man who indulged in suspicious thoughts. He knew
everything about his neighbours, good and bad. He might
forget the good, but never the evil. The tragedies, the
sins, the misdeeds of thirty years ago were as fresh in
his memory as the scandal of yesterday. No man had ever
been tempted beyond his strength but Sam Motherwell knew
the manner of his undoing. He extended no mercy to the
fallen; he suggested no excuse for the erring.

The collector made known his errand. Sam became animated
at once.

"What?" he cried angrily, "ain't that blamed thing paying
yet? I've a good notion to pull my money out of it and
be done with it. What do you take me for anyway?"

The collector ventured to call his attention to his
prosperous surroundings, and evident wealth.

"That's like you town fellows," he said indignantly. "You
never think of the hired help and twine bills, and what
it costs to run a place like this. I pay every time I
go, anyway. There ain't a time that I let the plate go
by me, when I'm there. By gosh! you seem to think I've
money to burn."