"I wish you could. You'd enjoy not only the trip but the interviews. I'd guarantee your interest before we'd made half our rounds."
"Any idea what you'll make the chief crop?" Max inquired, his eyes again wandering over the titles of the books.
"Strawberries," his prospective partner responded, at once.
"Strawberries! Expect to make a living off those?"
"Strawberries!"—This was Sally, in a tone of delight. "Lovely! I'll help pick. Can we have them next June? Oughtn't we to have sowed them last fall?"
A roar from the young man on the couch, and an irrepressible broad smile on the face of the one by the table, made Sally colour with chagrin. "I suppose I've said something awful?" she queried.
"Max and I'll make worse blunders than that before we are through," Jarvis consoled her, while Max, chuckling, attempted to instruct his sister and prove that after all he did know a thing or two about farming.
"You don't sow strawberries for a crop," he explained, wisely, "you set out plants. And you don't get a crop the first year, either—eh, Jarve? So Sally needn't begin to make a sun-bonnet to wear picking berries next June."
"Nor the second June, either, perhaps," admitted Jarvis, reluctantly. "To get the best results we shouldn't use land that's just been ploughed where there's been only sod for years. We ought to plant potatoes or cabbages the first year, to get the ground in shape. Then it'll need a lot of fertilizing after that. We have to get rid of the grubs in the old sod—"
"Grubs!" Max sat upright with a jerk. "There you are, at the first drop of the hat. Grubs—pests—not only after you get your plants out but two seasons beforehand."