"It bred on Banks's land," Mr. Turner told Hiram Strong. "When I first saw the critter during the winter—Banks called me over to show it to me—I told him I'd plow up that wheat as soon as I could, if I was him, and plant something else—spring wheat, or oats, or something. It was a puling kind of crop anyway. And it's a sight now!"
"I presume his land is poor?"
"You presume just right. And he's shiftless. Don't raise more than half a crop of anything. Don't keep cattle—they are too much trouble, he says—and his farm is getting poorer and poorer."
"I've seen his kind of farmer before."
"You bet you have! I've often thought, Mr. Strong, that a shiftless neighbor is worse than a dishonest one. You are on the watch for a thief; but a shiftless or lazy man will make more trouble than forty thieves, I do believe."
Hiram considered that Mr. Turner was about right. He went far enough with the old man to look at the Banks' wheat. It was completely blighted by the pest and to Hiram's mind would scarcely be worth thrashing. Besides, when the binder went through the field he knew very well that the pest would lodge on the weeds and grass that bordered the grain, and would thus exist—a serious menace—until the new wheat appeared in the fall.
"Do you know what I would do if I had money, Mr. Turner, and owned a farm next to this one?" the young farmer said.
"What would you do?" asked the old man suspiciously.
"I'd offer Banks a price for his standing grain and then burn it."
"Hey! You surely would have money to burn," grumbled Turner.