CHAPTER XLVII 
NABOTH’S VINEYARD 
One hazy, lazy October afternoon, as my 
friend Kyrle and I sat on the broad porch hit- 
ting our pipes, sipping high balls, and watching 
the men and machines in the corn-fields, as all 
toiling sons of the soil should do, he said: — 
«Doctor, I don’t think you’ve made any mis- 
take in this business.” 
«Lots of them, Kyrle; but none too serious 
to mend.” 
“Yes, I suppose so; but I didn’t mean it that 
way. It was no mistake when you made the 
change.” 
« You’re right, old man. It’s done me a heap 
of good, and Polly and the youngsters were 
never so happy. I only wish we had done it 
earlier.” 
«Do you think I could manage a farm?” 
“Why, of course you can; you’ve managed 
your business, haven’t you? You’ve grown rich 
in a business which is a great sight more taxing. 
How have you done it?” 
« By using my head, I suppose.” 
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