“The average farmer,” Neil argued, “isn’t a rich experimenter like you.  He can’t afford to put good gold into fertilizers and irrigating pumps.  I should think these fellows all around you would hate you for having the advantage of them.”

“On the contrary, as a matter of fact all but one or two are our very good friends, and much interested in our schemes.  They’ve given us a lot of valuable advice—­not on strawberry culture, because that’s not in their line, but in other ways.  They enjoy our mistakes hugely—­that’s only human—­but they don’t do it in an ill-natured way.  Last spring when we sowed clover-seed for millet and didn’t recognize it till the crop appeared, it was worth it to see them laugh at the joke, particularly as we didn’t mind laughing with them.  But I can tell you where we’re scoring the biggest success after all, and the one that would pay if half our crops turned out failures.  You haven’t been out here for a year, at least.  Take a look at Max, Alec, and Bob, when you get close to them, and tell me if they look like the same chaps you used to know in town.”

“You don’t, yourself,” admitted Chase, somewhat grudgingly.  He, himself, was decidedly slender of limb much to his regret.  Also, in spite of incessant motoring, his face was not that of unexceptionable health.  “You look as rugged as a rock.  Never thought you were cut out for an athlete, either, when you were in college.”

“I rather think that siege with my eyes was the best thing that ever happened to me—­though it didn’t seem much like it at the time.  Look at that berry.”  He held out a fine specimen.  “That goes in Class A—­specials, all right.”

“How many classes do you have?” Neil inquired, making way with the specimen from Class A in one huge mouthful, and finding it so juicy he was forced to make prompt use of his handkerchief.

“Two, but we’re going to draw a strict line.  The big ones are to be big to the bottom of the basket—­and no false bottoms.  A reputation is what we’re after—­then the prices will take care of themselves.”

Neil strolled down the row.  He had information enough.  He wanted to inspect the strawberry-pickers, one at a time.  It was not every day that one could meet distinguished young clergymen, accomplished pianists, and singers of unusual promise, between rows of strawberry vines.

The Chases had not been invited to be present at this special celebration of the first day of the strawberry picking, but they unhesitatingly accepted the invitation to stay to luncheon offered them as the hour for that meal drew near.  When the party left the field for the house it was discovered that Joanna, assisted by Mrs. Burnside and Mrs. Ferry, had moved the luncheon-table from the dining-room to the big porch.

“Well, of all the romantic, impractical farmers!” ejaculated Neil Chase, as he beheld this arrangement at close range, the table set with old blue-and-white china, a great bowl of Sally’s old-fashioned pink roses in the centre.  “Don’t you know that fried salt-pork and potatoes, in the kitchen, in your shirt-sleeves, is your only consistent meal, in the work season?”