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"'Scratch it off'? Scratch off twelve-seventeen-six!" Old Wright spun round on his stool. But William sat gazing out of the window. He had picked up his knife again, but did not at once resume work. The next thing old Wright heard was the clatter of a knife on the bench.
I believe you; and for that matter the wench seemed fair-spoken enough, and gave me a drink of cider. 'Tis the matter of a debt, you see." He drew a scrap of dirty paper from his pocket. "Twelve-seventeen-six, for repairs done to Wroote Parsonage; new larder, fifteen; lead for window-casements, eight-six; new fireplace to parlour, one-four-six: ancettera.
"Not a stiver on account!" "All right, I tell you. There won't be any paying on account with that bill: it'll be all or nothing. All, perhaps; and, if so, something more than all" he laid down his clasp-knife and almost involuntarily put a hand up to his cheek "but nothing, most like. I put that slip of leather there to remind me, but I don't need it. 'Twelve-seventeen-six' better scratch it off."
You have come about your bill, I suspect: the amount of which, if I remember " "Twelve-seventeen-six." The Rector sighed. "It is extremely awkward for me to pay you just now. Still, no doubt you find it no less awkward to wait: and since you have come all the way from Lincoln to collect it " "Steady a bit," Mr. Wright interrupted; "I never said that. I said I'd come direct from Lincoln." Mr.
William trimmed away at his washer. "Hello! Who's been putting this in the ledger?" The old man held up a thin strip of leather. "Oh, Willum, here's a very bad 'un!" "What name?" asked William indifferently, without turning his head. "Wesley, Reverend Samuel Wroote and Epworth Rectory twelve-seventeen-six. Two years owing, and not a stiver on account. Oh, a poisonous bad 'un!" "That's all right!"
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