"That's right. We did. And you are correct, my boy. But the old Irish Cobbler has made me so much money on my lower land around Plympton, on a three crop rotation, that I cannot get it out of my mind that it ought to work up here."
"On Sunnyside we've got to raise corn, we've got to raise silage, and a part of the land should be excellent for grain if properly tilled."
"I hear from Miss Pringle that for the last few years the wheat has not been much."
"And the crop now in the ground will not be much," grumbled Hiram. "But believe me, Mr. Bronson, I won't put a grain of wheat in the ground next September unless I am pretty positive of a thirty bushel crop."
"Sh! Don't let any of these old hardshells around here hear you say that or they'll think you are crazy. They don't average over twenty bushels to the acre, if they do that."
"There's one man around here who is going to do better than that unless all signs fail," said Hiram quickly.
"Who is he?"
"Yancey Battick."
"What? Why, that wet, sour land of his isn't fit to grow wheat."
"That's all right; but wait a while. Maybe he'll show you something. That is, barring the weather or the Hessian fly."