The special agent’s final question, the one I was hoping he would ask me: “Where do you ship your corn?” I said, “To the Greenleaf-Baker people in Atchison, as always.” Reckeway’s countenance showed surprise, if not real anger. The agents both laughed. Turning to Agent Larkin, the special agent asked: “Has he told the truth in all three instances?” “Absolutely,” said my chicken-owner friend. “Then, give him every other car,” said my newly found friend. And Mr. Reckeway stalked out mumbling in jumbled English and German, of which I could catch only, “A man with two elevators—.” My reputation was now redeemed. The so-called “Board of Trade” had long since passed out. It was never a Board of Trade, anyway. Its operations were limited to the sale of one old canning factory building, and the location of Mr. Reckeway—that is, if we do not choose to count the location of Mr. Abbott. You know, I was a member of the Board, with dues and absentee penalties paid in full. Now, let’s get this straight. I wouldn’t have been so resentful as to induce a live merchant like Mr. Abbott to move in on the homefolk. I just told him of the behavior of some of the Board members, and that I might have to deny him space in my paper. “Oh,” he said, “I don’t believe you will want to do that to me.” He winked. Well, I didn’t—really. Mr. Abbott had been thinking things over ever since the time I had asked him to surrender his space in the interests of that elaborate write-up. Said he figured it would now be OK for him to bring me copy for a half-page advertisement announcing his location in Wetmore. There were, however, many proposals advanced — but always they met with opposition from some member or members of the Board. In general, they kicked like the proverbial “bay steer” whenever something was advanced which might be helpful to one and detrimental to another. I think Mr. Worthy and I were the only ones who did not protest their proposals—such as bringing in Mr. Reckeway. And, frankly, until it had come to a showdown, I was not favored with too much information as to what Michael had up his sleeve. I don’t know where they could have found a better man than Mr. Reckeway for the place—but he was no miracle man. Handicapped as he was, he found the going rather tough. And having found out also that the Board Committee’s prophesy was only a myth—that an elevator alone could not make two bushels grow where only one bushel grew before—after a few rather lean years, he departed for greener pastures. I believe Mr. Reckeway made good in the flour milling business at Girard, Kansas. The Board of Trade sponsored (Reckeway) elevator, after years of idleness, has been torn down. Goff and Netawaka, like Wetmore, each now have only one elevator. And still the grain does not roll into Wetmore as was anticipated by the Board of Trade enthusiasts. Perhaps the old town may someday be favored with another set of progressives—who do not know their onions.