"You are right, Mr. Strong. It is one of the finest pictures ever painted by Nature. A field of wheat, when you consider it, is the most wonderful thing to contemplate on this, our western hemisphere. Next to rice, it is the grain most depended upon as the staple of human consumption. And when used in its entire, or whole, state it has no rival for nourishment and health.
"An entire rationing of a people with rice may, some medical men claim, nourish the germ of leprosy; we know that badly cured corn is the start of the dreaded pelagra. But wheat—even when refined and bleached until its goodness is all but wasted—brings no disease in its train save indigestion and that quite an unnecessary result of its use. Ground as a whole grain and properly baked, we need not even fear indigestion. More and more is the bread made from wheat becoming the Staff of Life."
"You certainly have a variety here," Hiram said, carefully examining one of the ears, "that might well be named that when you put it on the market, Mr. Battick."
"Named what?"
"'Staff of Life Wheat,' you know," Hiram said, smiling.
"A good suggestion, Mr. Strong—a cracking good suggestion," declared Battick, with some enthusiasm. "I'll bear that in mind."
"And can I have one of these heads, Mr. Battick?" Hiram asked. "Frankly, I'd like to show it to Mr. Bronson."
The man started, reddened, and glared at the young farmer sharply again. His easily roused suspicion was immediately awakened. But Hiram looked at him steadily—unwinkingly. Battick's gaze finally fell.
"You know how I feel about it, Mr. Strong. Your Mr. Bronson may be an all right man; but it was just such men as he appears to be who robbed me of my Mortgage Lifter Oats."
"He won't rob you, I guarantee," Hiram said shortly.