"How many of those plants you got, Bud?" Gramps asked as he inspected the row Bud had planted so far.
"Two hundred."
"What'd you pay for 'em?"
"Forty dollars."
Gramps whistled. "Twenty cents each for those piddling little plants?"
"I could have had good plants for less," Bud said, "but Mr. Demarest recommended these. They're bred especially for this climate and soil, and they're everbearing."
Gramps chuckled. "I mind the time Mother and me picked your first pen of chickens. We might have had some real good ones for half what yours cost. But Mother said 'Delbert Bennett! If we're going to give that boy chickens for Christmas, let's give him the best or none!' Now danged if they ain't running all over the farm."
"Are you sorry?" Bud queried.
"Oh, I could have done the same thing," Gramps said casually. "Matter of fact, I was thinking about it. Will say, though, that the more you put in at the beginning the more you're like to take out at the end, and Joe Demarest usually knows what he's talking about. I expect your berries will do right well if drought don't get 'em, or flood rains don't wash 'em out, or somebody's cattle don't trample 'em, or any of a couple dozen other things don't happen to 'em."
Gramps grinned, and then he said, "How long do you figure on being busy, Bud?"