"Yes, chief part."
"It seems to me it must either be a very poor crop, or they must want a good price for it so late in the season," said I, not ill pleased with myself for what I considered the rare shrewdness of this remark.
But Mr. Harrod smiled again. "The price will be the average of what the crops fetched during the past three years," said he. "That's law now. I should say about £36 to the acre. Leastways, that would be the price ready for picking, but there'll be a reduction at this time of year. That'll be a matter for private bargain."
"Yes," said I. "There'll be many a risk between now and picking."
"Of course," said the bailiff, half testily. "But it's just about the best-looking crop in these parts at the present time. They will plant those Early Prolifics about here. I suppose it's because they can get them sooner into the market. But they're a poor hop. Now, the plants at 'The Elms' are all Goldings or Jones."
"But they say the Goldings will never thrive in our soil," said I.
"They; who are they?" retorted Harrod. "They know nothing about it."
"No; I dare say you're right," I hastened to say. "Only hops are always considered risky, aren't they?"
"Everything is risky," answered he, more gently. "But as I have an interest in selling the crop to advantage if it turns out well, I don't believe your father could go very far wrong over it."
"Well, if you think it would be such a safe speculation, of course father ought to be persuaded to go in for it," said I.