Meanwhile Battick plucked several of the long plants and handed them to Hiram.
"You won't find their like around this part of the country, that is sure," the proud owner of the new wheat said. "If I had better land on which, this coming fall, to plant the grain I have, I should feel the time was ripe next season to sound some seedsman."
"I hope you will make a fortune out of it, Mr. Battick," said Hiram with earnestness.
"No fear!" bitterly returned the man. "But I mean to try. Of course, Mr. Strong, I'd just as soon you wouldn't show that grain to everybody."
"I understand."
"Or tell the folks around here where you got it."
"Trust me," rejoined the young man.
After he had left Battick, however, he thought of something. There was probably one person in the neighborhood—or of the neighborhood—who knew about Battick's wheat and about Battick's former ill-fated attempts to make something out of breeding seed.
Should he turn back and speak to Battick about Adam Banks? Ad had gone away. Hiram had heard that after the night of the dance at Sunnyside the fellow had gone to another county and was working on a farm.
"Let sleeping dogs lie," muttered the young farm manager. "And Ad Banks is a dog all right."