“This prize system,” I explained to him, “is only a quick method of getting the community started. It gives the men something to work for that seems to them tangible. A possible five hundred dollar profit is vague and conditional, while a hundred dollars deposited in the bank is definite and concrete. They’ll work for that.” “I don’t know but what you’re right,” he said, as though impressed by the new idea. “At any rate the experiment is worth fostering. I’ll send you down all the speakers you’ll listen to.” “Thanks,” I said, “but right here is where we must use some judgment. These people are queer, and--well, I’ll tell you frankly they haven’t much faith in you fellows.” He didn’t take offense. He just smiled--a weary, patient kind of smile. “That’s the pity of it,” he said. “And what’s the reason of it?” I asked directly. “I take it you haven’t lived long among them yourself,” he answered. “No, I haven’t,” I said, “but I expect to live among them from now on. I’ve seen a lot of them as it is, because I’ve taken pains to.” He nodded. “And I’ll give you my own theory first,” I said. “What we want down our way are practical men. At this stage we don’t want theoretical farmers. We don’t want to learn just yet the chemistry of farming, but how to make the most out of our land with the materials at hand. We aren’t looking for the best results, but the most practical results. I wish you could teach us how to raise potatoes, hay, corn and garden stuff with the aid of plain old-fashioned manure, a plain old-fashioned plow, and plain old-fashioned sweat and elbow grease. The other can come later.” Again he smiled. “Are you a college man, Mr. Carleton?” he asked. “No,” I answered, wondering what that had to do with it. Then he took from his bag a catalogue of the school and went over with me the details of the courses given. While there was a background of considerable theory, I must admit the work also covered about every practical branch of farming I had ever heard of. “Don’t you think a man who mastered these courses would know something about farming?” he asked. “He should,” I said. “It certainly makes me feel as though I’d like to go through the school myself.” “You ought to,” he said. “Well,” I said, “you turn out about forty graduates a year. What do most of the boys do?” “Teach,” he answered. “Most of them come from farms?” “Yes.” “Few of them go back to the farms?” “Not many,” he answered uneasily. “But some secure positions as farm managers.” “Managers of other people’s farms?” “Yes, of course. Most of the young men have limited means and are without the capital to buy farms of their own.” “But why don’t they return to the farms they left before they came to school?” “I suppose they feel the opportunities there aren’t large enough for them.”