"He has got a new variety and had raised it for seed," Hiram explained.
When they got back to the farm buildings he showed his employer the heads of grain Battick had given him. They shelled out the wheat. Every grain of it was perfect, with the tiny red stripe upon one side. Hiram watched Mr. Bronson's face with interest as the big farmer examined the kernels of wheat.
"My goodness, Hiram!" exclaimed the man at last, "do you mean to say that Battick had bred this wheat—that it is all alike?"
"I have every reason to believe it is all fully as good as that in your hand and true to type."
"And he's lost it all?"
"He has lost his crop for this year. He believes the stack was set on fire."
"No!"
"Yes, sir. And you cannot blame him after what he has been through. Let me tell you, Mr. Bronson."
They sat down and Hiram related the details of the story Yancey Battick had told him, as well as of his own adventures with the strange man.
"Well," was Mr. Bronson's first comment, "I had an idea that Battick was not quite right in his head. But I guess he is sane enough. And an educated man, too, isn't he?"