By this time the local bankers had scented a time of trouble approaching in the commercial and agricultural world; they began to draw in their more doubtful advances, or to refuse to renew them.  As a matter of fact, Smith was a perfectly sound man, but he had so persistently complained that people began to suspect there really was something wrong with his finances.  He endeavoured to explain, but was met with the tale that he had himself started.  He then honestly produced his books, and laid his position bare to the last penny.

The banker believed him, and renewed part of the advance for a short period; but he began, to cogitate in this wise:  ’Here is a farmer of long experience, born of a farming family, and a hardworking fellow, and, more than that, honest.  If this man, who has hitherto had the command of a fair amount of capital, cannot make his books balance better than this, what must be the case with some of our customers?  There are many who ride about on hunters, and have a bin of decent wine.  How much of all this is genuine?  We must be careful; these are hard times.’  In short, Smith, without meaning it, did his neighbours an immense deal of harm.  His very honesty injured them.  By slow degrees the bank got ‘tighter’ with its customers.  It leaked out—­all things leak out—­that Smith had said too much, and he became unpopular, which did not increase his contentment.

Finally he gave notice that unless the rent was reduced he should not apply to renew the lease, which would soon expire.  He had not the least intention in his secret mind of leaving the farm; he never dreamed that his notice would be accepted.  He and his had dwelt there for a hundred years, and were as much part and parcel of the place as the elm-trees in the hedges.  So many farms were in the market going a-begging for tenants, it was not probable a landlord would let a good man go for the sake of a few shillings an acre.  But the months went by and the landlord’s agents gave no sign, and at last Smith realised that he was really going to leave.

Though he had so long talked of going, it came upon him like a thunderbolt.  It was like an attack of some violent fever that shakes a strong man and leaves him as weak as a child.  The farmer, whose meals had been so hearty, could not relish his food.  His breakfast dwindled to a pretence; his lunch fell off; his dinner grew less; his supper faded; his spirits and water, the old familiar ‘nightcap,’ did him no good.  His jolly ringing laugh was heard no more; from a thorough gossip he became taciturn, and barely opened his lips.  His clothes began to hang about him, instead of fitting him all too tight; his complexion lost the red colour and became sallow; his eyes had a furtive look in them, so different to the old straightforward glance.