“Oh, that was a joke,” said Will.
“It was nothing of the kind,” answered Ed. “I can’t possibly count up all the people who have worked hard to give me this toast, but they certainly number greatly more than a thousand.”
“We’re only waiting for wisdom to drop from your lips—” began Irv, with his drawl.
“O, quit it, Irv!” said Phil; “you’ll learn more by listening than by talking.”
“That is probably so,” said the other, “though I remember that we heard something away up the river, about how much a person learns of a subject by talking about it.”
“Yes, but—”
“Listen,” said Ed, “and I’ll explain. The wheat out of which this toast was made was grown probably in Dakota or Minnesota. There was a farmer there, and perhaps there were some farm-hands also, who ploughed the ground, sowed the seed, reaped the wheat, threshed it, winnowed it, and all that. Then—”
“Yes, but all that wouldn’t include more than half a dozen,” said Phil.
“Yes, it would,” said Irv, “for there’s all the womenfolk who cooked the men’s meals and—”
“Never mind them,” said Ed, “though of course they helped to give me my toast. Let’s count only those that contributed directly to that kindly end. These farmer people used ploughs, harrows, drills, reapers, threshing-machines, wagons, and all that, and somebody must have made them. And back of those who made them were those who dug the iron for them out of the ground, and cut the wood in them out of the forest, and the men who made the tools with which they did all this, and—”