“What d’ye mean by ‘hosts’?”
“Their hotel-keepers—the big plants. And now the plants that have the hotel roots for the bacteria furnish nitrogen not only for themselves but for the crops that follow. Corn can’t get nitrogen out of the air; but clover can—and that’s why we ought to plow down clover before a crop of corn.”
“Gee!” said Newt. “If you could get to teach our school, I’d go again.”
“It would interfere with your pool playing.”
“What business is that o’ yours?” interrogated Newt defiantly.
“Well, get busy with that shovel,” suggested Jim, who had been working steadily, driving out upon the fill occasionally to unload. On his return from dumping the next load, Newton seemed, in a superior way, quite amiably disposed toward his workfellow—rather the habitual thing in the neighborhood.
“I’ll work my old man to vote for you for the job,” said he.
“What job?” asked Jim.
“Teacher for our school,” answered Newt.
“Those school directors,” replied Jim, “have become so bullheaded that they’ll never vote for any one except the applicants they’ve been voting for.”