at the price of wheat
was the most vital topic of conversation in the world.

"Well, now," he would say, "you take this year's wheat crop, with about
917,000,000 bushels of wheat harvested, why, that's what's going to win
the war! Yes, sirree! No wheat, no winning, that's what I say."

"Ya-as, it is!" the city men would scoff. But the queer part of it is
that Farmer Ben was right.

Minnie got into the habit of using him as a sort of nursemaid. It gave
her many hours of freedom for gadding and gossiping.

"Pa, will you look after Pearlie for a little while this morning? I
got to run downtown to match something and she gets so tired and
mean-acting if I take her along. Ma's going with me."

He loved the feel of Pearlie's small, velvet-soft hand in his big fist.
He called her "little feller," and fed her forbidden dainties. His big
brown fingers were miraculously deft at buttoning and unbuttoning her
tiny garments, and wiping her soft lips, and performing a hundred
tender offices. He was playing a sort of game with himself, pretending
this was Dike become a baby again. Once the pair managed to get over
to Lincoln Park, where they spent a glorious day looking at the
animals, eating popcorn, and riding on the miniature railway.

They returned, tired, dusty, and happy, to a double tirade.

Bella engaged in a great deal of what she called worrying about Dike.
Ben spoke of him seldom, but the boy was always present in his
thoughts. They had written him of their move, but he had not seemed to
get the impression of its permanence. His letters indicated that he
thought they were visiting Minnie, or taking a vacation in the city.
Dike's letters were few. Ben treasured them, and read and reread them.
When the Armistice news came, and with it the possibility of Dike's
return, Ben tried to fancy him fitting into the life of the city. And
his whole being revolted at the thought.

He saw the pimply-faced, sallow youths standing at the corner of
Halsted and Sixty-third, spitting languidly and handling their limp
cigarettes with an amazing labial dexterity. Their conversation was
low-voiced, sinister, and terse, and their eyes narrowed as they
watched the overdressed, scarlet-lipped girls go by. A great fear
clutched at Ben Westerveld's heart.

The lack of exercise and manual labor began to tell on Ben. He did not
grow fat from idleness. Instead his skin seemed to sag and hang on his
frame, like a garment grown to