"An entire rationing of a people with rice may, some medical men claim, nourish the germ of leprosy; we know that badly cured corn is the start of the dreaded pelagra. But wheat--even when refined and bleached until its goodness is all but wasted--brings no disease in its train save indigestion and that quite an unnecessary result of its use. Ground as a whole grain and properly baked, we need not even fear indigestion. More and more is the bread made from wheat becoming the Staff of Life." "You certainly have a variety here," Hiram said, carefully examining one of the ears, "that might well be named that when you put it on the market, Mr. Battick." "Named what?" "'Staff of Life Wheat,' you know," Hiram said, smiling. "A good suggestion, Mr. Strong--a cracking good suggestion," declared Battick, with some enthusiasm. "I'll bear that in mind." "And can I have one of these heads, Mr. Battick?" Hiram asked. "Frankly, I'd like to show it to Mr. Bronson." The man started, reddened, and glared at the young farmer sharply again. His easily roused suspicion was immediately awakened. But Hiram looked at him steadily--unwinkingly. Battick's gaze finally fell. "You know how I feel about it, Mr. Strong. Your Mr. Bronson may be an all right man; but it was just such men as he appears to be who robbed me of my Mortgage Lifter Oats." "He won't rob you, I guarantee," Hiram said shortly. Meanwhile Battick plucked several of the long plants and handed them to Hiram. "You won't find their like around this part of the country, that is sure," the proud owner of the new wheat said. "If I had better land on which, this coming fall, to plant the grain I have, I should feel the time was ripe next season to sound some seedsman." "I hope you will make a fortune out of it, Mr. Battick," said Hiram with earnestness. "No fear!" bitterly returned the man. "But I mean to try. Of course, Mr. Strong, I'd just as soon you wouldn't show that grain to everybody." "I understand." "Or tell the folks around here where you got it." "Trust me," rejoined the young man. After he had left Battick, however, he thought of something. There was probably one person in the neighborhood--or of the neighborhood--who knew about Battick's wheat and about Battick's former ill-fated attempts to make something out of breeding seed. Should he turn back and speak to Battick about Adam Banks? Ad had gone away. Hiram had heard that after the night of the dance at Sunnyside the fellow had gone to another county and was working on a farm. "Let sleeping dogs lie," muttered the young farm manager. "And Ad Banks is a dog all right."