and stirred things up in the potting shed. Here, come along—you can see for yourself."

He drew her through the cottage, pointing out the advantages of the kitchen so near the greenhouse. She walked about the paths and felt of the rich brown soil without a streak of yellow, and finally her eyes fell upon some little low leaves by the back step.

"Patch," she demanded, "what's that?"

"You've the eagle eye, to be sure. What do you suppose it is?"

"It's clover," she said. "Shamrock to you. Surely not the same shamrock! I gave strict orders!"

Before he could stop her, she had tugged a plant up by the roots and pulled out her pocket microscope as she bent over it.

"Sure, they were so busy worrying about the plague here, they forgot all about the little plague from Earth. And all I wanted was a bit of old Ireland to bring with me. A few little cysts couldn't be that important. And you've got to admit that's what I've got—a green island!"

"The idiots!" screamed Bridget. "The irresponsible, shirking, doublefaced—"

Her hand went up and Patch dodged involuntarily, expecting her to throw shamrock, dirt and all right at his head. But her hand stopped in midair.

"Patch!" Her voice fell to a whisper of incredulity. "I think I've got the answer here in my hand. Don't say a word till I'm sure, but get me soil samples from all over your place—there—and over there—and hurry!"

Patch ran back and forth with the soil samples and Bridget looked in her microscope, and everywhere the golden nematode was teeming and nowhere was there a sign of the sinister yellow streaks.

"Don't you see?" Bridget said. "Whatever it is, the nematodes are killing it."

"It will take some experimenting to prove it, but Bridget, my girl, I believe you're right."

"And while they're proving it, Patch, you and I are going to breed nematodes right here."

And she had a vision of the golden horde, burrowing from Patch's land in all directions, bringing back health and sanity to the land. Whatever would Professor Schwarzkopf say? Dear Professor Schwarzkopf! Sometimes the watchdogs are too faithful. They keep out everyone—even our friends.

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