Says he: “Betsy, I sometimes think we will never git our farm paid for. It seems to be a gittin harder and harder every year to make payments. It has took all we raised to meet the interest for the last four years; we haint been able to pay anything on the mortgage; and this spring I dont know where we will git the money to pay even the interest. It takes twice as much wheat, or anything else, nearly, to git the money to pay the interest with as it use to, and crops haint any better. Besides, Betsy, if I was to sell the farm to-day, it wouldent bring much above the $2,100 we owe on it. When I bought it for $3,800, fourteen years ago, I thought it cheap enough, and it was if times hadent got so hard and things we raise so cheap. Jist to think, we have paid $1,700 on the first cost, and $2,100 in interest besides, and if we had to sell it to pay the mortgage we would not have a dollar left. Congressman Richer could foreclose at any time; he could have done so for the last three years—ever since I failed to make the payments on the mortgage.” “Well, Jobe,” says I, “it is bad enough, to say the least.” “Yes, Betsy,” says he, “if we cant meet the interest, Banker Jones tells me, we will be sold out.” I was silent. Jobe continered: “I tell you, Betsy, these times, six per cent. interest is hard to pay. It seems that, no matter how cheap a farmer has to sell what he raises, interest dont get any cheaper.” Thinks I, “Now is my time to speak.” “Jobe,” says I, slow and deliberate, lookin him square in the eyes, “Jobe Gaskins, haint you a American citizen? Haint you jist as good a citizen as a banker? Haint you jist as honest? Haint you jist as hard-workin? Haint you got as much rights in these here United States?” Jobe was silent, but lookin straight at me, starin.