watching--even at best no spectacular results were
expected--but I made myself one of the party just the same. The theater
was a particularly dismal part of Dartmoor and for some reason, probably
known only to herself, she had chosen dawn for the time. We arrived,
cold and uncomfortable, in two saloon cars, the second one holding
several long cylinders similar to the oxygen or acetylene tanks commonly
used in American industry.

There was a great deal of mysterious consultation between Miss Francis
and her assistants, punctuated by ritualistic samplings of the
vegetation and soil. When these ceremonies were complete four stakes and
a wooden mallet were produced and the corners of a square, about 200 by
200, were pegged. The cylinders were unloaded, set in place at equal
intervals along one side of the square, turncocks and nozzles with
elongated sprayjets attached, and the valves opened.

A fine mist issued forth, settling gently over the stakedout area. Miss
Francis, her toothpick suspended, stood in rapt contemplation. At the
end of thirty minutes the spray was turned off and the containers rolled
back into the car. Except for the artificial dew upon it, the moor
looked exactly as it had before.

"Well, Weener, are you going to stand there and gawk for the next
twentyfour hours or are you coming back with us?"

I could tell by their expressions how horrified her assistants were at
the rudeness to which I'd become so accustomed I no longer noticed it.
"It's not a success, then?" I asked.

"How the devil do I know? I have no crystal ball to show me tomorrow.
Anyway, even if it works on the miscellaneous growth here I havent the
remotest idea how the Grass will react to it. This is only a remote
preliminary, as I told you before, and why you encumbered us with your
inquisitiveness is more than I can see."

"Youre coming back tomorrow, then?"

"Naturally. Did you think I just put this on for fun--in order to go
away and forget it? Weener, I always knew those who made money werent
particularly brilliant, but arent you a little backward, even for a
billionaire?"

There was no doubt she indulged in these boorish discourtesies simply to
buoy up her own ego, which must have suffered greatly. She presumed on
her sex and my tolerance, taking the same pleasure in baiting me, on
whom she was utterly dependent, as a terrier does in annoying a Saint
Bernard, knowing the big dog's chivalry will protect the pest.

When we r