“And the farm becomes yours for half its real value.”

“Exactly.”

“Are you not striking to soon?” suggested the lawyer.

“No.”

“Some friend may loan him the amount.”

Dyer shook his head.

“It’s a tight time in Brookville.”

“I know.”

“And still better for my purpose,” said Dyer, in a low, meaning, voice; “drunkards have few friends; none, in fact, willing to risk their money on them.  Put the screws to Bacon, and his farm will drop into my hands like a ripe cherry.”

“You can hardly call Bacon a drunkard.  You never see him staggering about, nor lounging in bar-rooms.”

“Do you remember his farm seven years ago?”

“Perfectly well.”

“Look at it now.”

“There’s a great difference, certainly.”

“Isn’t there!  What’s the reason of this?”

“Intemperance, I suppose.”

“Drunkenness!” said the tavern-keeper.  “That is the right word.  He don’t spend much in bar-rooms, but look over his store bill and you’ll find rum a large item.”

“Poor Bacon!  He’s a good sort of a man,” remarked the lawyer.  “I can’t help feeling sorry for him.  He’s his own worst enemy.”

“I want you to push this matter through in the quickest possible time,” said Dyer, in a sharp, firm voice.

“Very well.  It shall be done.  I know my business.”

“And I know mine,” returned the tavern-keeper.

On the next day, Mr. Bacon was formally notified that proceedings had been instituted for the satisfaction of the mortgage.  This was bringing the threatened evil before his eyes in the most direct aspect.  In considerable alarm and perturbation, he called over to see Dyer.

“You cannot mean to press this matter on to the utmost extremity,” said he, on meeting the tavern-keeper, the hard aspect of whose features gave him little room for hope.

“I certainly mean to get my three hundred dollars,” was replied.

“Can you not wait until after next harvest?”

“I have already told you that I want my money now,” said Dyer, with affected anger.  “If you can pay me, well; if not, I will get my own by aid of the Sheriff.”

“That is a hard saying, Mr. Dyer,” returned the farmer, in a subdued voice.

“Nevertheless, it is a true one, friend Bacon, true as gospel.”

“I haven’t the money, nor can I borrow it, Mr. Dyer.”

“Your misfortune, not mine.  Though I must say, it is a little strange.”

“What is strange?”

“That a man who has lived in this community as long as you have, can’t find a friend willing to loan him three hundred dollars to save his farm from the Sheriff.  There’s something wrong.”

Yes, there was something wrong, and poor old Mr. Bacon felt it now more deeply than ever.  Another feeble effort at remonstrance was made, when Mr. Dyer coldly referred him to Grant the lawyer, who had now entire control of the business.  But he did not go to him.  He felt that to do so would be utterly useless.