porterhouse steaks I deliver to the professor in the green-house every day?"
"Porterhouse steaks?" questioned the gardener, amazed.
"Do you feed 'em to the dog?"
"We don't keep a dog."
But the butcher boy questioned no further, for he saw a chum and hastened off to join him.
"Three porterhouse steaks a day!" mused the gardener, shaking his head. "I do hope the professor has not ceased to be a vegetarian. Yet it looks mighty suspicious. And he's doing it on the sly, too, for there's been no meat cooked in the house, of that I'm sure."
And the gardener, sorely puzzled over the mystery, went off, shaking his head more solemnly than before.
He resolved to have a look in the place the professor guarded so carefully. He tried the door when he was sure his master was in another part of the conservatory, but it was locked, and no key the gardener had would unfasten it.
A month after the gardener had heard of the porterhouse steaks, Adams happened to drop in to see his friend the professor again.
"He's in with the Sarracenia Nepenthis," said the gardener in answer to the visitor's inquiry. "But I doubt if he will let you enter."
"Why won't he?"
"Because he's become mighty close-mouthed of late over that pitcher plant."
"Oh, I guess he'll see me," remarked Adams confidently, and he knocked on the door that shut off the locked section of the green-house from the main portion.
"Who's there?" called the professor.
"Adams."
"Oh," in a more conciliatory tone, "I was just wishing you'd come along. I have something to show you."
Professor Jonkin opened the door, and the sight that met Adams' gaze startled him.
The only plant in that part of the conservatory was a single specimen of the Sarracenia Nepenthis. Yet it had attained such enormous proportions that at first Adams thought he must be dreaming.
"What do you think of that for an achievement in science?" asked the professor proudly.
"Do you mean lo say that is the small, fly-catching plant your friend sent you from Brazil?"
"The same."
"But—but"
"But how it's grown, that's what you want to say isn't it?"
"It is. How did you do it?"
"By dieting the blossoms."
"You mean?"
"I mean feeding them. Listen. I reasoned that if a small blossom of the plant would thrive on a few insects, by giving it larger meals I might get a bigger plant. So I made my plans.
"First I cut off all but one blossom, so that the strength of the plant would nourish that alone. Then I made out a bill of fare. I began feeding it on chopped beef. The plant took to it like a puppy. It seemed to beg for more. From chopped meat I went to small pieces, cut up. I could fairly see the blossom increase in size. From that I went to choice mutton chops, and, after a week of them, with the plant becoming more gigantic all the while, I increased its meals to a porterhouse steak a day. And now"
The professor paused to contemplate his botanical work.
"Well, now?" questioned Adams.
"Now," went on the professor proudly, "my pitcher plant takes three big beefsteaks every day—one for breakfast, one for dinner, and one for supper. And see the result."
Adams gazed at the immense plant. From a growth about as big as an Easter lily it had increased until the top was near the roof of the green-house, twenty-five feet above.
About fifteen feet up, or ten feet from the top, there branched out a great flower, about eight feet long and three feet across the bell-shaped mouth, which, except for the cap or cover, was not unlike the opening of an immense morning glory.
The flower was heavy, and the stalk on which it grew was not strong enough to support it upright. So a rude scaffolding had been constructed of wood and boards, and on a frame the flower was held upright.
