His head buzzed with a hundred confused plans to see if he was really right, but he never neglected the business men and their troubles, or the authorities or the farmers or his students. He turned part of his laboratory into a manure testing station, he hurried to Paris and tried to get himself elected to the Academy of Sciences--and failed--and he took his classes on educational trips to breweries in Valenciennes and foundries in Belgium. In the middle of this he felt sure, one day, that he had a way to prove that the little rods were alive, that in spite of their miserable littleness they did giant’s work, the work no giant could do--of changing sugar into lactic acid. “I can’t study these rods that I think are alive in this mixed-up mess of the juice of the beet-pulp from the vats,” Pasteur pondered. “I shall have to invent some kind of clear soup for them so that I can see what goes on--I’ll have to invent this special food for them and then see if they multiply, if they have young, if a thousand of the small dancing beings appears where there was only one at first.” He tried putting some of the grayish specks from the sick vats into pure sugar water. They refused to grow in it. “The rods need a richer food,” he meditated, and after many failures he devised a strange soup; he took some dried yeast and boiled it in pure water and strained it so that it was perfectly clear, he added an exact amount of sugar and a little carbonate of chalk to keep the soup from being acid. Then on the point of a fine needle he fished up one of the gray specks from some juice of a sick fermentation. Carefully he sowed this speck in his new clear soup--and put the bottle in an incubating oven--and waited, waited anxious and nervous; it is this business of experiments not coming off at once that is always the curse of microbe hunting. He waited and signed some vouchers and lectured to students and came back to peer into his incubator at his precious bottle and advised farmers about their crops and fertilizers and bolted absent-minded meals and peered once more at his tubes--and waited. He went to bed without knowing what was happening in his bottle--it is hard to sleep when you do not know such things.... All the next day it was the same, but toward evening when his legs began to be heavy with failure once more, he muttered: “There _is_ no clear broth that will let me see these beastly rods growing--but I’ll just look once more----”