We reached Worcester about twelve, and went to the Star and Garter. The Squire had no end of matters on hand that day: but the two chief things that had brought him to Worcester were--to draw some money from the bank, and to negotiate with Mr. Prothero, a corn-dealer, for the sale of a load of wheat. Mr. Prothero was a close man to deal with: he wanted the wheat at one price, the Squire said it should only go at another: if he held out, the Squire meant to hold out, even though it involved staying the night in Worcester. It was Wednesday; market-day. Not so large a market as the Saturday's, but the town looked pretty full. The first thing the Squire did was to go to the Old Bank. At the door he turned round and said there was no need for three of us to crowd into the place. However, we were then inside, and so went on with him. He had something particular to say to Mr. Isaac, and asked for him. They were talking together in private for a minute or two, and then the Squire took out his cheque for fifty pounds, and laid it on the counter. "How will you take it?" asked Mr. Isaac. "In five-pound notes." Mr. Isaac brought the money himself. The Squire put it in his pocket-book, and we said good-morning, and departed. There were shops to call at and people to see: and of course the market to walk through. You wouldn't get the Squire to keep himself out of the market-house, when in Worcester on market-day: he'd go about asking the price of butter and fowls like any old woman. A little after four o'clock we got back to the Star; and found Mr. Prothero had not made his appearance. "Just like him!" cried the Squire. "His appointment was for four o'clock sharp. He means to hold out against my price; that's what he thinks to do. Let him! he won't get the wheat at less." "I'd see him a jolly long way before he should have it at all," said haughty Tod. "Do you hear, sir?" "Hold your tongue, Joe," was the Squire's answer. "Anyway, sir, Prothero gives you more trouble than all the rest of the buyers put together. He's a stingy, close-fisted fellow." "But his money's safe and sure. Prothero is a respectable man, Joe; his word's as good as his bond." Half-past four, and no Prothero. The Squire began to fume a little: if he hated one thing more than another it was to be kept waiting. "Look here, boys, I'll send that note to your mother," he said, taking out his pocket-book. "There's not much chance of our going home to-night at this rate. Ring, one of you, for some paper and envelopes." Separating one of the notes from the roll Mr. Isaac had handed to him, he gave it to me to put up. I asked him if I should take down the number. "I don't think it matters, Johnny." But I took it down, perhaps through some unconscious instinct--for I don't suppose I am more cautious than other people. In my pocket was a letter from Anna Whitney: and I pencilled on it the number of the note.