Mostyn was compelled to admit the truth of the remark. They had driven
out of the village square and were now in the open country.

"Thar is one more thing about town folks an' country folks that I've
always wanted to know," John began again after a silence of several
minutes, "and that is why town folks contend that country folks is
green. As I look at it it is an even swap. Now, you are a town man,
an' I'm a country feller. I could take you to the edge o' that cotton-
field whar it joins on to the woods on that slope thar, an' point out
a spot whar you couldn't make cotton grow more'n six inches high
though it will reach four feet everywhar else in the field. Now, I'd
be an impolite fool to lie down thar betwixt the rows an' split my
sides laughin' at you for not knowin' what I jest got on to by years
an' years o' farm life. The truth is that cotton won't take any sort
o' root within twenty feet of a white-oak tree."

"I didn't know that," Mostyn said.

"I knowed you didn't, an' that's why I fetched it up," Webb went on,
blandly, "an" me nor no other farmer would poke fun at you about it,
but it is different in town. Jest let a spindle-legged counter-jumper
at a store with his hair parted in the middle git a joke on a country
feller, an' the whole town will take a hand in it. Oh, I know, for
they've shore had _me_ on the run."

"I'm surprised at that," Mostyn answered, smiling. "You seem too
shrewd to be taken in by any one."

"Humph, I say!" Webb laughed reminiscently. "I supplied all the fun