Think I should say here—well, really it should be apparent without saying—that our reputable farmers were not guilty of this practice. It was usually floater-tenants, irresponsible farmers making a short stay in the community, who devoted much time to figuring out a way to skin someone. A fellow by the name of Groves, farming the old Adam Swerdfeger place eight miles northwest of Wetmore, contracted to deliver to me 800 bushels of “Number Three, or better” corn at 32 cents a bushel. When the wagons began coming, in the afternoon, I saw the corn was not up to grade, and I held up the haulers waiting for the arrival of the seller. In the meantime I learned from the haulers that it was corn that had been frosted, gathered while immature, shelled while frozen, and stored in a bin on the farm. The fellow had sent word by the last hauler in, that there would be two more loads to follow. When they did not show up at the proper interval, I dumped the loads (in waiting) and let the impatient farmers go home. I knew now from the way the fellow was holding back that I would have a tough customer to deal with—but I would take a chance on him. I felt that I couldn’t afford to keep the haulers, who were my friends, waiting longer. The seller came in with the two loads between sundown and dark. I told him the corn was not up to grade. He said,”Well, you’ve dumped it, haven’t you?” I said, “Yes, for a fact, I have dumped thirteen loads of it—but here’s two loads I’m not going to dump.” But I did finally dump them, on agreement with the fellow to ship the lot separately and give him full returns. The shipment was reported “no grade” and the price was cut six cents a bushel. I paid the man 26 cents a bushel, on the basis of our weight—and was glad to be rid of him. Then, the next day I received an amended report on the car. It was found to be in such bad condition that the receiving house had called for a re-inspection—and the price was cut another eight cents a bushel. And this was mine—all mine. It seemed to me that nearly everything, in the old days was, in a sense, touched with that horrible word—gamble. And I know that I really did gamble in an attempt to grow a crop of corn on my expensively tiled bottom seed-corn farm down the creek a mile from town, one very dry year. I hired all the work done, paid out $500 in good money—and got nothing but fodder. Another time I filled my cribs with 25 cent corn and held it for the summer market. When I was bid 49% cents a bushel, I jokingly told Mr. Worthy that I couldn’t figure fractions very well, and that I would wait for even money. Fifty cents was considered a high price for corn then—but usually when it would reach near that figure, the holders would begin to talk one dollar corn. It was a year when the corn speculators just didn’t know what to do, after the price began to slip.