Dad now talked of going up country—as Mother put it, "to keep the wolf from the door"—while the four acres of corn ripened. He went, and returned on the day Tom and Bill were born—twins. Maybe his absence did keep the wolf from the door, but it did n't keep the dingoes from the fowl-house!
Once the corn ripened it did n't take long to pull it, but Dad had to put on his considering-cap when we came to the question of getting it in. To hump it in bags seemed inevitable till Dwyer asked Dad to give him a hand to put up a milking-yard. Then Dad's chance came, and he seized it.
Dwyer, in return for Dad's labour, carted in the corn and took it to the railway-station when it was shelled. Yes, when it was shelled! We had to shell it with our hands, and what a time we had! For the first half-hour we did n't mind it at all, and shelled cob after cob as though we liked it; but next day, talk about blisters! we could n't close our hands for them, and our faces had to go without a wash for a fortnight.
Fifteen bags we got off the four acres, and the storekeeper undertook to sell it. Corn was then at 12s. and 14s. per bushel, and Dad expected a big cheque.
Every day for nearly three weeks he trudged over to the store (five miles) and I went with him. Each time the storekeeper would shake his head and say "No word yet."
Dad could n't understand. At last word did come. The storekeeper was busy serving a customer when we went in, so he told Dad to "hold on a bit."
