“The barn!”
“Surely. I’ve just been examining it. It never was anything more than a shed, without even a floor; and for a long time, while Deacon Wilder owned this place, horses and cattle were kept there. The soil in that barn is two feet thick and very rich. It’ll grow mushrooms like sixty!”
“But it’s cold in the barn, in winter. The boards are falling off in places, and——”
“We’ll patch it up,” said the doctor, with decision; “and we’ll put a heater in it—one of these regular green-house boilers, with hot-water pipes running under the surface of the ground, so as to keep the soil always warm. Firewood doesn’t cost much in this part of the country.”
Will smiled at such cheerful optimism.
“And when you’ve raised the things,” he said, “what are you going to do with them? The Bingham people wouldn’t buy ten cents’ worth of mushrooms in ten years.”
The doctor snorted contemptuously.
“The Bingham people! Do you think I’m a fool, Will Carden?”
“Who then?”
“Why, it’s only twenty-two miles to the city. There are four trains every day. In the city are a thousand customers longing to buy mushrooms, in season and out, and willing to pay big prices for them, too.”