Then without any prompting on his part the crowd let itself loose. She took out a little white handkerchief and waved it a second. Then she pressed it to her eyes and shied back, and Holt stepping in front of her shielded her from further view of the audience. It was fine--fine. I don’t know what there is about such little incidents to so touch the heart of a gathering of men and women but I do know they are mighty good for men and women. There wasn’t a person there who wasn’t left mellowed and almost hallowed by those few tense seconds. In and of itself and apart from all else we had done, this was worth all our labor. It sweetened the whole of us and left us with a finer human feeling. The prize for the best market garden went to Higginbotham and the prize for the best flower garden went to Mildred Cunningham, the minister’s daughter. You ought to have seen the pride with which Cunningham escorted the girl to the platform. The man since the inception of the movement had really done what he could to help us both in his sermons and his rounds of the parish. But to my mind the little girl had done more than he. I’d give more any time for a person who actually gets into a forward movement than one who merely talks about it. She had kept half the sick people of the village supplied with posies all summer long. The seventh envelope contained the winner of the prize for the best potato crop--one hundred dollars. I hadn’t any idea whom the Agricultural School experts had decided upon. I tore open the envelope and read automatically as follows: “For the best crop of potatoes raised upon an acre of land--one hundred dollars. It gives me great pleasure to announce as the winner--” Then I stopped. I couldn’t believe my own eyes. The name which followed was my own. “Go on,” someone yelled impatiently. “I think there must be some mistake,” I said, turning to the judge. “I didn’t consider myself a competitor.” “Name! Name!” came a chorus. “Name!” insisted Holt. I turned to the crowd. “The name is William Carleton,” I said, “But I don’t feel--” I didn’t get any farther. The crowd began to cheer and Holt stepped forward to egg them on. When the clamor died down a little, Holt seized my arm. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “Mr. William Carleton--a farmer from the city but now a citizen of the farm. He’s the greatest pioneer of us all. I’ve seen his potato field and watched him care for it until I almost wished I was a potato. He’s done everything except make feather beds for ’em and tuck ’em in at night. Three cheers more for Pioneer Carleton.” As soon as I could get my voice I responded. “I’m glad of the honor,” I said, “I don’t remember anything which has ever made me feel prouder. I shall always remember this. But, the hundred dollars I want to turn back right here to the Pioneer Club.”