e lowest spot in the middle of the turnpike. "Take Newt here to help
load."

Jim smiled his habitual slow, gentle smile at Newton Bronson, his helper.
Newton was seventeen, undersized, tobacco-stained, profane and proud of
the fact that he had once beaten his way from Des Moines to Faribault on
freight trains. A source of anxiety to his father, and the subject of many
predictions that he would come to no good end, Newton was out on the road
work because he was likely to be of little use on the farm. Clearly,
Newton was on the downward road in a double sense--and yet, Jim Irwin
rather liked him.

"The fellers have put up a job on you, Jim," volunteered Newton, as they
began filling the wagon with gravel.

"What sort of job?" asked Jim.

"They're nominating you for teacher," replied Newton.

"Since when has the position of teacher been an elective office?" asked
Jim.

"Sure, it ain't elective," answered Newton. "But they say that with as
many brains as you've got sloshing around loose in the neighborhood,
you're a candidate that can break the deadlock in the school board."

Jim shoveled on silently for a while, and by example urged Newton to earn
the money credited to his father's assessment for the day's work.

"Aw, what's the use of diggin' into it like this?" protested Newton, who
was developing an unwonted perspiration. "None of the others are heatin'
themselves up."

"Don't you get any fun out of doing a good day's work?" asked Jim.

"Fun!" exclaimed Newton. "You're crazy!"

A slide of earth from the top of the pit threatened to bury Newton in
gravel, sand and good top soil. A sweet-clover plant growing rankly beside
the pit, and thinking itself perfectly safe, came down with it, its dark
green foliage anchored by the long roots which penetrated to a depth below
the gravel pit's bottom. Jim Irwin pulled it loose from its anchorage, and
after looking attentively at the roots, laid the whole plant on the bank
for safety.

"What do you want of that weed?" asked Newton.

Jim picked it up and showed him the nodules on its roots--little white
knobs, smaller than pinheads.

"Know what they are, Newt?"

"Just white specks on the roots," replied Newton.

"The most wonderful specks in the world," said Jim. "Ever hear of the use
of nitrates to enrich the soil?"

"Ain't that the stuff the old man used on the lawn last spring?"

"Yes," said Jim, "your father used some on his lawn. We don't put it on
our fie