6

THE wind swept down the rows, next morning, swaying the branches of the trees, and the windfalls dropped on the ground with soft thuds. Frost was in the wind, and between the gusts the curious stillness of autumn. The pickers scurried at their work, coats buttoned close over their chests. When the trucks went by between the rows, a wall of dust rolled out and went sailing down the wind.

The checker at the loading station wore a sheepskin coat, and when he was not tallying, thrust hands and book and pencil into his breast pocket and moved his feet restlessly.

Jim carried his bucket to the station. “Cold enough for you?”

“Not as cold as it will be if this wind doesn’t change. Freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” the checker said.

A sullen looking boy came up and dumped his bucket. His dark brows grew low to his eyes and his dark, stiff hair grew low on his forehead. His eyes were red and hot. He dumped his bucketful of apples into a box.

“Don’t bruise those apples,” the checker said. “Rot sets in on a bruise.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” The checker made a slashing mark with his pencil. “That bucket’s out. Try again.”

The smouldering eyes regarded him with hostility. “You sure got it comin’. An’ you’re goin’ to get it.”

The checker reddened with anger. “If you’re going to get smart, you’d better pad along out and hit the road.”

The boy’s mouth spat venomously. “We’ll get you; one of the first.” He looked knowingly at Jim. “O.K., pal?”

“You’d better get on to work,” Jim said quietly. “We can’t make wages if we don’t work.”

The boy pointed down the row. “I’m in that fourth tree, buddy,” he said, and moved away.

“What’s the gag?” the checker asked. “Everybody’s touchy this morning.”

“It’s the wind, maybe,” said Jim. “I guess it’s the wind. Makes people nervous when the wind blows.”

The checker glanced quickly at him, for his tone had been satiric. “You too?”

“Me too.”

“What’s in the air, Nolan? Something up?”

“What you mean, ‘something’?”

“You know God-damn well what I mean.”

Jim knocked his bucket lightly against his leg. He stepped aside as a truck went by, and a dust wall covered him for a moment. “Maybe the little black book keeps you ignorant,” he said. “You might turn in the little book, and then see if you can find out.”

“So that’s it. Organizing for trouble, are you? Well, the air’s full of it.”

“Air’s full of dust,” said Jim.

“I’ve seen that kind of dust before, Nolan.”

“Well, then you know all about it.” He started to move away.

“Wait a minute, Nolan.” Jim stopped and turned.

“You’re a good man, Nolan, a good worker. What’s going on?”

“I can’t hear you,” said Jim. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll put the black mark on you.”

Jim took two fierce steps toward him. “Put down your black mark and be damned,” he cried. “I never said a thing. You’ve built all this up because a kid got smart with you.”

The checker glanced away uneasily. “I was just kidding,” he said. “Listen, Nolan, they need a checker up on the north end. I thought you might do for the job. You could go to work tomorrow. It would be better pay.”

Jim’s eyes darkened in anger for a second, and then he smiled and stepped close to the checker again. “What do you want?” he asked softly.

“I’ll tell you straight, Nolan. There’s something going on. The ‘super’ told me to try and find out. You get the dope for me and I’ll put in a word for you on that checker’s job, fifty cents an hour.”

Jim seemed to study. “I don’t know anything,” he said slowly. “I might try to find out if there was anything in it for me.”

“Well, would five bucks say anything?”

“Sure would.”

“O.K. You circulate around. I’ll check you in on buckets so you won’t lose anything today. See what you can dig up for me.”

Jim said, “How do I know you won’t double-cross me? Maybe I find something out and tell you. If the men ever found I told you, they’d skin me.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Nolan. If the ‘super’ can get a good man like you, he won’t throw him over. There might be a steady job here for you when the picking’s over, running a pump or something.”

Jim thought for a moment. “I don’t promise anything,” he said. “I’ll keep my ears open, and if I find anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Good boy. There’s five in it, and a job.”

“I’ll try that tough kid,” Jim said. “He seemed to know something.” He walked down the row toward the fourth tree. Just as he reached it the boy came down the ladder with a full bucket.

“Hi,” he said. “I’ll dump these and be back.”

Jim went up the ladder and sat down on a limb. The muttering of a sorting belt at the packing-plant blew clearly on the wind, and the smell of fresh cider came from the presses. From a long way off Jim could hear the hiss and bark of a switch-engine making up a train.

The sullen boy came running up the ladder like a monkey. He said angrily, “When we get down to business I’m gonna get me a nice big rock, and I’m gonna sock that bastard.”

Jim used Mac’s method. “A nice guy like that? What you want to hurt him for? What do you mean ‘when we get down to business’?”

The boy squatted down beside him. “Ain’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“You ain’t a rat?”

“No, I won’t rat.”

The boy cried, “We’re goin’ to strike, that’s what!”

“Strike? With nice jobs? What you want to strike for?”

“’Cause we’re gettin’ screwed, that’s why. The bunk houses is full of pants rabbits, and the company’s store is takin’ five per cent house-cut, and they drop the pay after we get here, that’s why! And if we let ’em get by with it, we’ll be worse in the cotton. We’ll get screwed there, too; and you know it damn well.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Jim. “Who’s strikin’ besides you?”

The boy squinted at him with his hot eyes. “Gettin’ smart, ain’t you?”

“No. I’m trying to find out something, and you aren’t telling me.”

“I can’t tell you nothing. We can’t let nothing out yet. You’ll find out when it’s time. We got the men all organized. We got ever’thing about ready, and we’re gonna raise hell. There’s gonna be a meetin’ tonight for a few of us, then we’ll let the rest of you guys in on it.”

“Who’s in back of it?” Jim asked.

“I ain’t tellin’. Might spoil ever’thing if I was to tell.”

“O.K.,” said Jim, “if that’s the way you feel about it.”

“I’d tell you if I could, but I promised not to. You’ll know in time. You’ll go out with us, won’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said Jim. “I won’t if I don’t know any more about it than I do now.”

“Well, by Christ, we’ll kill anybody that scabs on us; I’m tellin’ you that now.”

“Well, I don’t ever like to get killed.” Jim hung his bucket on a limb and slowly set about filling it. “What’s chances of goin’ to that meeting?”

“Not a chance. That’s going to be only the big guys.”

“You a big guy?”

“I’m on the in,” said the boy.

“Well, who are these big guys?”

The sullen eyes peered suspiciously at Jim. “You ask too damn many questions. I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’. You act to me like a pigeon.”

Jim’s bucket was full. He lifted it down. “Are the guys talking it up in the trees?”

“Are they? Where you been all morning?”

“Working,” said Jim. “Making my daily bread. It’s a nice job.”

The boy blazed at him. “Don’t you get pushin’ me around unless you’d like to step down on the ground with me.”

Jim winked at him the way he’d seen Mac do. “Turn off the heat, kid. I’ll be along when the stuff starts.”

The boy grinned foolishly. “You catch a guy off balance,” he said.

Jim carried his bucket down the row and emptied it gently into a box. “Got the time?”

The checker looked at his watch. “Eleven-thirty. Find out anything?”

“Hell, no. That kid’s just shooting off his face. He thinks he’s a newspaper. I’ll mix around some after dinner and see.”

“Well, get the dope as quick as you can. Can you drive a truck?”

“Why not?”

“We might be able to put you on a truck.”

“That’d be swell.” Jim walked away, down the row. The men in the trees and on the ladders were talking. He went up a heavy-laden tree where two men were.

“Hello, kid. Come on up and join the party.”

“Thanks.” Jim settled to picking. “Lots of talk this morning,” he observed.

“Sure is. We was just doin’ some. Everybody’s talkin’ strike.”

Jim said, “When enough guys talk strike, a strike usually comes off.”

The second man, high up in the tree, broke in. “I was just tellin’ Jerry, I don’t like it. Christ knows we ain’t makin’ much, but if we strike, we don’t make nothin’.”

“Not right now we don’t,” said Jerry. “But later we make more. This damn apple pickin’ don’t last long, but cotton pickin’ lasts longer. The way I figure it out, the cotton people is watchin’ this thing. If we take dirt like a bunch of lousy sheep then the cotton people will nick us deeper. That’s the way I figure it out, anyway.”

Jim smiled. “Sounds reasonable.”

The other man said, “Well, I don’t like it. I don’t like no trouble if I can get out of it. Lot of men’ll get hurt. I can’t see no good in it at all. I never yet seen a strike raise wages for long.”

Jerry said, “If the guys go out, you goin’ to be a scab?”

“No, Jerry, I wouldn’t do that. If the men go out, I’ll go too. I won’t scab, but I don’t like it.”

Jim asked, “They got any organization going yet?”

“Not that I heard,” said Jerry. “Nobody’s called a meeting up yet. We’ll just sit tight; but the way I got it figured, if the guys go out, I’m goin’ out too.”

A wheezy whistle tooted at the packing plant. “Noon,” said Jerry. “I got some sanriches under that pile of boxes there. Want some?”

“No, thanks,” said Jim. “I got to meet the guy I travel with.”

He left his bucket at the checker’s post and walked toward the packing plant. Through the trees he could see a tall, white-washed building with a loading platform along one side. The sorting belt was still now. As Jim drew near he saw men and women sitting on the platform, hanging their legs over while they ate their lunches. A group of about thirty men had collected at one end of the building. Someone in the center of the crowd was talking excitedly. Jim could hear the rise and fall of his voice, but not his words.

The wind had fallen now, so that the warmth of the sunshine got through. As Jim approached, Mac detached himself from the group and came toward him carrying two paper-wrapped parcels. “Hi, Jim,” he said. “Here’s lunch, french bread and some sliced ham.”

“Swell. I’m hungry.”

Mac observed, “More of our men go out with stomach ulcers than with firing squads. How’re things out your way?”

“Buzzing,” said Jim. “Buzzing to beat hell. I met a kid who knows all about it. There’s going to be a meeting of the big guys tonight.”

Mac laughed. “That’s good. I wondered whether the men with secret knowledge had got working yet. They can do us a lot of good. Men out your way getting mad?”

“They’re talking a lot, anyway. Oh, say, Mac, the checker’s going to give me five bucks and a permanent job if I find out what’s going on. I told him I’d keep my ears open.”

“Nice work,” said Mac. “Maybe you can make a little money on the side.”

“Well, what do you want me to tell him?”

“Well, let’s see—tell him it’s just a splash, and it’ll blow over. Tell him it’s nothing to get excited about.”

He swung his head. A man had approached quietly, a heavy man dressed in dirty overalls, with a face nearly black with dirt. He came close and glanced about to see that they were alone.

“The committee sent me down,” he said softly. “How’re things going?”

Mac looked up at him in surprise. “What things you talkin’ about, mister?”

“You know what I mean. The committee wants a report.”

Mac looked helplessly at Jim. “The man’s crazy,” he said. “What committee’s this?”

“You know what I mean—” the voice sank, “comrade.”

Mac stepped stiffly forward, his face black with anger. “Where you get this ‘comrade’ stuff,” he growled. “If you’re one of them lousy radicals, I got no use for you. Now you get on your way before I call some of the boys.”

The intruder’s manner changed. “Watch your step, baby,” he said. “We’ve got the glass on you.” He moved slowly away.

Mac sighed. “Well, these apple boys think quick even if they don’t think awful good,” he said.

“That guy a dick?” Jim asked.

“Hell, yes. A man couldn’t get his face that dirty without giving nature a lift. They lined us up quick, though, didn’t they? Sit down and have something to eat.”

They sat in the dirt and made thick ham sandwiches. “There goes your chance for a bribe,” Mac said. He turned a serious face to Jim and quoted, “‘Watch your step, baby,’ and that’s straight. We can’t afford to drop out now. And just remember that a lot of these guys will sell out for five bucks. Make other people talk, but keep pretty quiet yourself.”

“How’d they make us, d’you s’pose?” Jim asked.

“I don’t know. Some bull from town put the finger on us, I guess. Maybe I better get some help down here in case you or I go out. This thing’s coming off, and it needs direction. It’s a pretty good layout, too.”

“Will they jail us?” Jim asked.

Mac chewed a thick crust before he answered. “First they’ll try to scare us,” he said. “Now listen, if any time when I’m not around somebody tells you you’re going to be lynched, you just agree to anything. Don’t let ’em scare you, but don’t go to using Joy’s tricks. Jesus, they got moving quick! Oh, well, we’ll get moving tomorrow, ourselves. I sent off last night for some posters. They should be here by tomorrow morning if Dick got off his dime. There ought to be some kind of word by mail tonight.”

“What do you want me to do?” Jim asked. “All I do is just listen. I want to do something.”

Mac looked around at him and grinned. “I’ll use you more and more,” he said. “I’ll use you right down to the bone. This is going to be a nice mess, from the looks of it. That crack of yours about the cotton was swell. I’ve heard half a dozen guys use it for their own idea this morning.”

“Where we going tonight, Mac?”

“Well, you remember Al, the fellow in the lunch wagon? He said his old man had a little orchard. I thought we might go out and see Al’s father.”

“Is that what you meant about getting a place for the guys when they go out?”

“I’m going to try to work it, anyway,” Mac said. “This thing’s going to break any time now. It’s like blowing up a balloon. You can’t tell when it’s going to bust. No two of ’em bust just the same.”

“You figure the big meeting for tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, that’s what I figure; but you can’t ever tell. These guys are plenty steamed up. Something might set ’em off before. You can’t tell. I want to be ready. If I can get that place for the guys, I’ll send for Doc Burton. He’s a queer kind of a duck, not a Party man, but he works all the time for the guys. He’ll lay out the place and tend to the sanitation, so the Red Cross can’t run us off.”

Jim lay back in the dirt and put his arms under his head. “What’s the big argument over by the packinghouse?”

“I don’t know. The men just feel like arguing, that’s all. By now maybe it’s Darwin versus Old Testament. They’d just as soon fight over that. When they get to feeling like this, they’ll fight about anything. Be pretty careful for yourself, Jim. Some guy might slug you just because he’s feeling nervous.”

“I wish it would start,” Jim said. “I’m anxious for it to get going. I think I can help more when it once gets going.”

“Keep your pants on,” said Mac.

They rested in the dirt until the wheezy whistle blew a short toot for one o’clock. As they parted, Mac said, “Come running when we quit. We’ve got to cover some ground tonight. Maybe Al’ll give us a hand-out again.”

Jim walked back to the checking station, where his bucket was. The sorting belts began rumbling in the plant. Truck motors roared as they were started. Among the trees the pickers were sullenly going back to work. A number of men were standing around the checking station when Jim got his bucket. The checker did not speak to him then; but when Jim brought in his first full bucket, the question came. “Find out anything, Nolan?”

Jim leaned over the apple box and put his apples in it by hand. “I think it’s all going to blow over. Most of the guys don’t seem very mad.”

“Well, what makes you think that?”

Jim asked, “Did you hear what made ’em mad?”

“No, I didn’t. I thought it was the cut.”

“Hell, no,” said Jim. “A guy over on the Hunter place got a can of fish at the Hunter store that was bad. Made him sick. Well, you know how working stiffs are; they got sore, then the feeling spread over here. But I talked to some of the guys at noon. They’re getting over it.”

The checker asked, “You pretty sure that’s all it is?”

“Sure. How about my five bucks?”

“I’ll get it for you tomorrow.”

“Well, I want that five, and you said you’d see about a better job.”

“I will see about it. Let you know tomorrow.”

“I should’ve got the money first, before I told you,” Jim complained.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get it.”

Jim walked off into the orchard. Just as he started to climb a ladder, a voice called from above him, “Look out for that ladder, she’s shaky.”

Jim saw old Dan standing in the tree. “By God, it’s the boy radical,” said old Dan.

Jim climbed up carefully. The rungs were loose in the ladder: “How’s things, Dan?” he asked as he hung up his bucket.

“Oh, pretty good. I ain’t feeling so good. Them cold beans lay like a flatiron in me all night.”

“Well, you ought to have a warm supper.”

“I was just too tired to build a fire. I’m getting on. I didn’t want to get up this morning. It was cold.”

“You should try one of the charity rackets,” said Jim.

“I don’t know. All the men is talkin’ strike, and there’s goin’ t’ be trouble. I’m tired. I don’t want no trouble to come now. What’ll I do if the men strike?”

“Why strike with them. Lead them.” Jim tried to spur him through pride. “The men would respect an old worker like you. You could lead the pickets.”

“I s’pose I could,” said Dan. He wiped his nose with a big hand and flicked his fingers. “I just don’t want to. It’s goin’ to get cold early this afternoon. I’d like a little hot soup for supper—hot as hell, with little bits of meat in it, and some hot toast to soak in it. I love poached eggs. When I used to come to town out of the woods, with money, sometimes I’d get me half a dozen eggs poached in milk, and let ’em soak into toast. And then I’d mash the eggs up into the toast, and I’d eat ’em. Sometimes eight eggs. I made good pay in the woods. I could just as easy of got two dozen poached eggs. I wish I had. Lots of butter, an’ all sprinkled with pepper.”

“Not so hard-boiled as you were yesterday, huh, Pop? Yesterday you could out-work anybody on the lot.”

The light of reminiscence went out of old Dan’s eyes. His scraggly chin thrust forward. “I still can out-work a bunch of lousy punks that spends their time talkin’.” He reached indignantly for the apples, fumbling over his head. One big, bony hand clung to a branch.

Jim watched him with amusement. “You’re just showing off, Pop.”

“Think I am? Well, try an’ keep up with me, then.”

“What’s the use of you an’ me racing, and then the orchard owner’s the only one that makes anything?”

Old Dan piled apples into his bucket. “You punks got something to learn yet. There’s more to work than you ever knew. Like a bunch of horses—you want more hay! Whining around for more hay. Want all the hay there is! You make a good man sick, that’s what you do, whining around.” His bucket was over-full. When he lifted it clear of the hook, five or six fat apples rolled out and bounced on the limbs and struck the ground under the tree. “Get out o’ my way, punk,” Dan cried. “Go on, get out o’ the way o’ that ladder.”

“O.K., Pop, but take your time. You won’t get a thing for rushing.” Jim stepped clear of the ladder-top and climbed out a limb. He hung his bucket and reached for an apple. Behind him he heard a splintering crash and a sullen thump. He looked around. Old Dan lay on his back on the ground under the tree. His open eyes looked stunned. His face was blue pale under the white stubble. Two rungs were stripped out of the ladder.

Jim cried, “That was a fall! Hurt yourself, Pop?”

The old man lay still. His eyes were full of a perplexed question. His mouth writhed, and he licked his lips.

Jim shinnied down the tree and knelt beside him. “Where are you hurt, Pop?”

Dan gasped, “I don’t know. I can’t move. I think I’ve bust my hip. It don’t hurt none, yet.”

Men were running toward them. Jim could see men dropping from the trees all around and running toward them. The checker trotted over from his pile of boxes. The men crowded close. “Where’s he hurt?”

“How’d it happen?”

“Did he bust his leg?”

“He’s too old to be up a tree.”

The ring of men was thrust inward by more arriving. Jim heard the checker cry, “Let me through here.” The faces were dull and sullen and quiet.

Jim shouted, “Stand back, can’t you. Don’t crowd in.” The men shifted their feet. A little growl came from the back row. A voice shouted, “Look at that ladder.”

All heads went up with one movement, and all eyes looked to where the old loose rungs had splintered and torn out. Someone said, “That’s what they make us work on. Look at it!”

Jim could hear the thudding of feet as more men ran up in groups. He stood up and tried to push the ring apart. “Get back, you bastards. You’ll smother him.”

Old Dan had closed his eyes. His face was still and white with shock. On the outskirts of the mob the men began to shout, “Look at the ladder! That’s what they make us work on!” The growl of the men, and the growl of their anger arose. Their eyes were fierce. In a moment their vague unrest and anger centered and focused.

The checker still cried, “Let me through there.”

Suddenly a voice shrill with hysteria shouted, “You get out of here, you son-of-a-bitch.” There was a scuffle.

“Look out, Joe. Hold Joe. Don’t let him. Grab his feet.”

“Now, mister, scram, and go fast.”

Jim stood up. “You guys clear away. We got to get this poor fellow out of here.” The men seemed to awaken from a sleep. The inner ring pushed violently outward. “Get a couple of sticks. We can make a stretcher out of a pair of coats. There, put the sticks through the arms. Now, button up the fronts.” Jim said, “Easy now, with him. I think his hip’s busted.” He looked down at Dan’s quiet, white face. “I guess he’s fainted. Now, easy.”

They lifted Dan on to the coat stretcher. “You two guys carry him,” Jim said. “Some of you clear a way.”

At least a hundred men had collected by this time. The men with the stretcher stepped out. Newcomers stood looking at the broken ladder. Over and over the words, “Look what they give us to use.”

Jim turned to a man who stood stupidly staring up into the tree. “What happened to the checker?”

“Huh? Oh, Joe Teague slugged him. Tried to kick his brains out. The guys held Joe. Joe went to pieces.”

“Damn good thing he didn’t kill him,” Jim said.

The band of men moved along behind the stretcher, and more were running in from all over the orchard. As they drew near the packing-plant the rumble of the sorting belt stopped. Men and women crowded out of the loading doors. A quiet had settled on the growing mob. The men walked stiffly, as men do at a funeral.

Mac came tearing around the corner of the packing-plant. He saw Jim and ran to him. “What is it? Come over here away from the mob.” The crowd of ominous, quiet people moved on after the stretcher. Newcomers were told in low tones, “The ladder. An old ladder.” The body of the mob went ahead of Mac and Jim.

“Now what happened? Tell me quick. We’ve got to move while they’re hot.”

“It was old Dan. He got smart about how strong he was. Broke a couple of rungs out of a ladder and fell on his back. He thought he broke his hip.”

Mac said, “Well, it’s happened. I kind of expected it. It doesn’t take much when the guys feel this way. They’ll grab on anything. The old buzzard was worth something after all.”

“Worth something?” Jim asked.

“Sure. He tipped the thing off. We can use him now.” They walked quickly after the mob of men. The dust, raised by many feet, filled the air with a slow-blowing brown cloud. From the direction of the town the switch-engine crashed monotonously making up a train. On the outskirts of the mob women ran about, but the men were silent, trudging on after the stretcher, toward the bunk houses.

“Hurry up, Jim,” Mac cried. “We’ve got to rush.”

“Where we going?”

“We’ve got to find London first, and tell him how to work; then we’ve got to go in and send a telegram; and I want to go and see Al’s old man, right away. Look, there’s London over there.

“Hi, London.” Mac broke into a run, and Jim ran behind him. “It’s busted out, London,” Mac said breathlessly. “That old guy, Dan, fell out of a tree. It’s wide open, now.”

“Well, that’s what we want, ain’t it?” said London. He took off his hat and scratched his tonsure.

“The hell it is,” Mac broke in. “These guys’ll go nuts if we don’t take charge. Look, there goes your long lean buddy. Call him over.”

London cupped his hands. “Sam,” he yelled.

Jim saw that it was the same man who had sat by the campfire in the jungle. Mac said, “Listen, London, and you, Sam. I’m going to tell you a lot of stuff quick, ‘cause I’ve got to get along. These guys are just as likely to pop in a few minutes. You go over, Sam, and tell ’em they ought to hold a meeting. And then you nominate London, here, for chairman. They’ll put him in all right. They’ll do almost anything. That’s all you got to do, Sam.” Mac picked up a handful of dirt and rubbed it between his palms. His feet stirred and kicked at the ground. “Now listen, London, soon’s you’re chairman, you tell ’em we got to have order. You give ’em a list of guys, about ten, and tell ’em to vote for those guys as a committee to figure things out. Got that?”

“Sure. I get you.”

“Now look—here’s the way to do it. If you want ’em to vote for something, you say ‘do you want to do it?’ and if you want to vote down somethin’, just say, ‘you don’t want to do this, do you?’ and they’ll vote no. Make ’em vote on everythin’, everythin’, see? They’re all ready for it.”

They looked toward the crowd at the bunk house. The men were still quiet, shifting about, never standing very long in a place, moving their arms; their faces were as relaxed as those of sleeping men.

London demanded, “Where you guys going now?”

“We’re going to see about that place for the crowd to stay when the thing busts open, that little farm. Oh, one other thing, you pick out a bunch of the craziest of these guys and send ’em over to the other ranches to talk. Get the men that are doin’ the most talkin’. You all set now?”

“All set,” said London.

“Well, let us use your Ford, will you? We got to cover ground.”

“Sure, take it, if you can run it} it’s got tricks.”

Mac turned to Sam. “All right, get over there. Just stand up on somethin’ and yell ‘Boys, we ought to hold a meetin’,’ and then yell, ’I move London for chairman.’ Get going, Sam. Come on, Jim.”

Sam trotted off toward the bunk houses, and London followed more slowly. Mac and Jim circled the buildings and went to the ancient Ford touring car. “Get in, Jim. You drive the gillopy.” A roar of voices came from the other side of the bunk house. Jim turned the key and retarded the spark lever. The coils buzzed like little rattlesnakes. Mac spun the crank and primed, and spun again. A second roar from the mob came over the house. Mac threw his shoulder into the work. The engine caught and its noise drowned the shouting of the men. Mac leaped into the car, yelling, “Well, I guess London’s our new chairman. Push ’er along.”

Jim backed around and drove out to the highway. The road was deserted. The green, heavy-laden trees threw their shadows’ weight sideways under the declining sun. The car rolled along, its pistons battering in the cylinders. “First to a telegraph office, and then to the post office,” Mac shouted.

They rolled into the town. Jim drove to the main street and parked in front of a Western Union office. “Post office is just a block up, see?” he said.

“Well, listen, Jim, while I send the wire, you go up and ask for mail for William Dowdy.”

In a few moments Jim came back with three letters. Mac was already sitting in the car. He ripped the letters open and read them. “Hot-damn, listen. This one’s from Dick. He says Joy broke jail; they don’t know where he is. He was bein’ taken for a hearing and he smacked a cop and beat it. I just wired for more help, and for Doc Burton to take over the sanitation. Wait, I’ll crack ’er up. Let’s move along to Al’s lunch wagon.”

When Jim drew up in front of the lunch wagon, he could see Al through the windows, leaning over his deserted counter, staring out at the sidewalk. Al recognized them as they got out. He raised a fat arm at them.

Mac pushed open the sliding door. “Hi, Al. How’s business?”

Al’s eyes were bright with interest. “Been just fine,” he said. “Whole flock of guys from the orchards come in last night.”

“I been tellin’ ’em what a swell steak you put out,” said Mac.

“Nice of you. Like a bite yourself?”

“Sure,” said Mac. “We could even pay for it. Imagine us guys payin’ for anything.”

“Aw, this is just your cut,” said Al. “Kind of a commission for sending the guys in town.” He opened his icebox and patted out two hamburger steaks and slapped them down on the stove-top; and he arranged a wreath of chopped onions about each one. “How’s things coming out your way?” he asked.

Mac leaned confidentially over the counter. “Listen, Al. I know you’re a guy I can trust. We got you on the books. You been swell to us.”

Al blushed with pleasure at the praise. “Well, I’d be out with you guys if I didn’t have a business to keep up. A man sees the way conditions is, and injustice, and things—and if he’s got any brains he comes to it.”

“Sure,” said Mac hurriedly. “A guy with brains don’t have to be taught. He sees things for himself.”

Al turned away to hide his pleasure. He flipped the steaks and pressed them down with his spatula and gathered up the wilting onions and forced them into the meat. He scraped the grease into the little trough on the side of the stove-top. When he had forced his face back to a proper gravity, he turned around again. “Sure you guys can trust me,” he said. “You ought to know it. What you got on?” He filled two cups with coffee and slid them along the counter.

Mac tapped delicately on the counter with a knife-blade. “There may be bulls askin’ about me and Jim.”

“Sure. I don’t know nothin’ about you,” said Al.

“That’s right. Now here’s the dope, Al. This valley’s about to bust wide open. Already has over on the place where we been working. The others’ll probably crack tonight.”

Al said softly, “You know, the way the guys was talkin’ in here, I thought it wasn’t far off. What d’you want me to do?”

“Better take up that meat.” Al held two plates fan-wise in one hand, put a steak on each, mashed potatoes, carrots and turnips, loaded the plates.

“Gravy, gents?”

“Smear it,” said Mac.

Al ladled gravy over the whole pile of food and set the plates before them. “Now go on,” he said.

Mac filled his mouth. His speech was muffled and spaced with chewing. “You said your old man had a little ranch.”

“He has. Want to hide out there?”

“No.” Mac pointed his fork at Al. “There won’t be an apple picked in this valley.”

“Well, say—mister——”

“Wait. Listen. Any plow land on your old man’s place?”

“Yeah, about five acres. Had it in hay. Hay’s all out now.”

“Here it is,” said Mac. “We’re goin’ to have a thousand or two men with no place to go. They’ll kick ’em off the ranches and won’t let ’em on the road. Now if they could camp on that five acres, they’d be safe.”

Al’s face sagged with fear and doubt. “Aw, no, mister. I don’t think my old man’d do it.”

Mac broke in, “He’d get his apples picked, picked quick, and picked for nothing. Price’ll be high with the rest of ’em shut off.”

“Well, wouldn’t the town guys raise hell with him afterwards?”

“Who?” Mac asked.

“Why, the Legion, and guys like that. They’d sneak out and beat him up.”

“No, I don’t think they would. He’s got a right to have men on his place. I’ll have a doctor lay out the camp and see it’s kept clean, and your old man’ll get his crop picked for nothing.”

Al shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well, we can easy find out,” said Mac. “Let’s go talk to your old man.”

“I got to keep this place open. I can’t go away.”

Jim suddenly saw his neglected food and began to eat. Mac’s squinted eyes never left Al’s face. He sat and chewed and looked. Al began to get nervous. “You think I’m scared,” he began.

“I don’t think anything before I see it,” said Mac. “I just wondered why a guy can’t close up his own joint for an hour, if he wants to.”

“Well, the guys that eat early"ll be here in an hour.”

“You could get back in an hour.”

Al fidgeted. “I don’t think my old man’ll do it. He’s got to look out for himself, don’t he?”

“Well, he ain’t been jumped yet. How do you know what’ll happen?” A chill was creeping into Mac’s voice, a vague hostility.

Al picked up a rag and mopped around on the counter. His nervous eyes came to Mac’s and darted away and came back. At last he stepped close. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll just pin a little card to the door. I don’t think my old man’ll do it, but I’ll take you out there.”

Mac smiled broadly. “Good guy. We won’t forget it. Next time I see any stiff with a quarter, I’ll send him in to get one of your steaks.”

“I give a nice dinner for the money,” said Al. He took off his tall cook’s hat and rolled down his shirt sleeves, and turned the gas off under the cooking plate.

Mac finished his food. “That was good.”

Jim had to bolt his dinner not to be late.

“I got a little car in the lot behind here,” said Al. “Maybe you guys could just follow me; then I don’t get into no trouble and I’m still some good to you.”

Mac drained his cup. “That’s right, Al. Don’t you get into no bad company.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sure, I know. Come on, Jim, let’s go.”

Al wrote a sign and pinned it inside the door, facing out through the glass. He struggled his chubby arms into his coat and held the door open for Mac and Jim.

Mac cranked the Ford and jumped in, and Jim idled the motor until Al came bumping out of the lot in an old Dodge roadster. Jim followed him down the street to the east, across the concrete bridge over the river and out into the pleasant country. The sun was nearly down by now, red and warm with autumn dust. The massed apple trees along the road were grey with dust.

Mac turned in the seat and looked down the rows as they passed. “I don’t see anybody working,” he cried to Jim. “I wonder if he took hold already. There’s boxes, but nobody working.”

The paved road gave way to a dirt road. The Ford leaped and shuddered on the rough road. About a mile further Al’s dust-cloud swung off into a yard. Jim followed and came to a stop beside the Dodge. A white tank-house rose into the air, and on its top a windmill thrashed and glittered in the sun, and the pump bonged with a deep, throaty voice. It was a pleasant place. The apple trees grew in close to a small white ranch house. Tame mallards nuzzled the mud in the overflow under the tank. In a wire-bounded kennel against a big barn two rubbery English pointers stood against the screen and yearned out at the men with little yelps. The house itself was surrounded by a low picket fence, behind which geraniums grew big and red, and a Virginia creeper, dropping its red leaves, hung over the porch. Big square Plymouth Rock chickens strolled about, cawing contentedly and cocking their heads at the newcomers.

Al got out of the car. “Look a’ them dogs,” he said. “Best pointers in the Valley. My old man loves them better’n me.”

Mac asked, “Where’s the five acres, Al?”

“Down that way, behind the trees, on the other road.”

“Good. Let’s find your old man. You say he likes his dogs?”

Al laughed shortly. “Just make a pass at one o’ them dogs an’ see. He’ll eat you.”

Jim stared at the house, and at the newly whitewashed barn. “This is nice,” he said. “Makes a man want to live in a place like this.”

Al shook his head. “Takes an awful lot of work to keep it up. My old man works from dawn till after dark, and then he don’t keep up with the work.”

Mac insisted, “Where is your old man? Let’s find him.”

“Look,” Al said. “That’s him coming in from the orchard.”

Mac glanced up for a moment, and then he moved back to the kennel. The squirming pointers flung themselves at the wire, moaning with love. Mac stuck his fingers through the mesh and rubbed their muzzles.

Jim said, “Do you like dogs, Mac?”

Mac retorted irritably, “I like anything.”

Al’s father came walking up. He was totally unlike Al, small and quick as a terrier. The energy seemed to pour out of some inner reservoir into his arms and legs, and into his fingers so that all of him was on the move all of the time. His white hair was coarse, and his eyebrows and mustache bristled. His brown eyes flitted about as restlessly as bees. Because his fingers had nothing else to do while he walked, they snapped at his sides with little rhythmic reports. When he spoke, his words were like the rest of him, quick, nervous, sharp. “What’s the matter with your business?” he demanded of Al.

Al went heavily on the defensive. “Well, you see—I thought——”

“You wanted to get off the ranch, wanted to go into town, start a business, town boy, wanted to lounge around. Didn’t like to whitewash, never did. What’s the matter with your business?” His eyes hovered on each of the men, on their shoes and on their faces.

Mac still looked into the kennel and rubbed the dogs’ noses. Al explained, “Well, you see, I brang these guys out, they wanted to see you.”

The old man eliminated Al. “Well, they’re here. You can get back to your business now.”

Al looked at his little father with the hurt eyes of a dog about to be bathed, and then reluctantly he climbed into his car and drove disconsolately away.

Mac said, “I haven’t seen such pointers in a long time.”

Al’s father stepped up beside him. “Man, you never seen such pointers in your life.” A warmth was established.

“Do you shoot over ’em much?”

“Every season. And I get birds, too. Lots of fools use setters. Setter’s a net dog, nobody nets birds any more. Pointer’s a real gun dog.”

“I like the looks of that one with the liver saddle.”

“Sure, he’s good. But he can’t hold up to that sweet little bitch. Name’s Mary, gentle as Jesus in the pen, but she’s jumping hell in the field. Never seen a dog could cover the ground the way she can.”

Mac gave the noses a rub. “I see they got holes into the barn. You let ’em run in the barn?”

“No, their beds are tight against the wall. Warmer in there.”

“If the bitch ever whelps, I’d like to speak a pup.”

The old man snorted. “She’d have to whelp ever’ day in the year to supply the people that wants her pups.”

Mac turned slowly from the pen and looked into the brown eyes. “My name’s McLeod,” he said, and held out his hand.

“Anderson’s mine. What you want?”

“I want to talk straight to you.”

The sun was gone now, and the chickens had disappeared from the yard. The evening chill settled down among the trees. “Selling something, Mr. McLeod? I don’t want none.”

“Sure, we’re selling something, but it’s a new product.”

His tone seemed to reassure Anderson. “Why’n’t you come into the kitchen and have a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t mind,” said Mac.

The kitchen was like the rest of the place, painted, scrubbed, swept. The nickel trimmings on the stove shone so that it seemed wet.

“You live here alone, Mr. Anderson?”

“My boy Al comes out and sleeps. He’s a pretty good boy.” From a paper bag the old man took out a handful of carefully cut pine splinters and laid them in the stove, and on top he placed a few little scraps of pitchwood, and on top of those, three round pieces of seasoned apple wood. It was so well and deftly done that the fire flared up when he applied a match. The stove cricked, and a burst of heat came from it. He put on a coffee-pot and measured ground coffee into it. From a bag he took two egg shells and dropped them into the pot.

Mac and Jim sat at a kitchen table covered with new yellow oilcloth. Anderson finished his work at the stove. He came over, sat primly down, put his two hands on the table; they lay still, even as good dogs do when they want to be off. “Now, what is it, McLeod?”

A look of perplexity lay on Mac’s muscular face. “Mr. Anderson,” he said hesitatingly, “I haven’t got a hell of a lot of cards. I ought to play ’em hard and get the value out of ’em. But I don’t seem to want to. I think I’ll lay ’em down. If they take the pot, O.K. If they don’t, there’s no more deal.”

“Well, lay ’em then, McLeod.”

“It’s like this. By tomorrow a couple of thousand men will be on strike, and the apple picking will stop.”

Anderson’s hands seemed to sniff, to stiffen, and then to lie still again.

Mac went on, “The reason for the strike is this pay-cut. Now the owners’ll run in scabs, and there’ll be trouble. But there’s a bunch of men going out, enough to picket the Valley. D’you get the picture?”

“Part of it; but I don’t know what you’re driving at.”

“Well, here’s the rest. Damn soon there’ll be a supervisors’ ordinance against gathering on a road or on any public property. The owners’ll kick the strikers off their land for trespassing.”

“Well, I’m an owner. What do you want of me?”

“Al says you’ve got five acres of plow land.” Anderson’s hands were still and tense as dogs at point. “Your five acres are private property. You can have men on it.”

Anderson said cautiously, “You’re selling something; you don’t say what it is.”

“If the Torgas Valley apples don’t go on the market, the price’ll go up, won’t it?”

“Sure it will.”

“Well, you’ll get your crop picked free.”

Anderson relaxed slightly in his chair. The coffee-pot began to breathe gently on the stove. “Men like that’d litter the land up,” he said.

“No, they won’t. There’s a committee to keep order. There won’t even be any liquor allowed. A doctor’s coming down to look out for the sanitation. We’ll lay out a nice neat camp, in streets.”

Anderson drew a quick breath. “Look here, young fellow, I own this place. I got to get along with my neighbors. They’d raise hell with me if I did a thing like that.”

“You say you own this place,” Mac said. “Is it clear? Is there any paper on it?”

“Well, no, it ain’t clear.”

“And who are your neighbors?” Mac asked quickly. “I’ll tell you who they are: Hunter, Gillray, Martin. Who holds your paper? Torgas Finance Company. Who owns Torgas Finance Company? Hunter, Gillray, Martin. Have they been squeezing you? You know God damn well they have. How long you going to last? Maybe one year; and then Torgas Finance takes your place. Is that straight? Now suppose you got a crop out with no labor charges; suppose you sold it on a rising market? Could you clear out your paper?”

Anderson’s eyes were bright and beady. Two little spots of anger were on his cheeks. His hands crept under the edge of the table and hid. For a moment he seemed not to breathe. At last he said softly, “You didn’t lay ’em down, fellow, you played ’em. If I could get clear—if I could get a knife in——”

“We’ll give you two regiments of men to get your knife in.”

“Yeah, but my neighbors’d run me out.”

“Oh no they won’t. If they touch you or your place we won’t leave a barn standing in the Valley.”

Anderson’s lean old jaw was set hard. “What you getting out of it?”

Mac grinned. “I could tell you the other stuff straight. I don’t know whether you’d believe the answer to that one or not. Me an’ Jim here get a sock in the puss now and then. We get sixty days for vagrancy pretty often.”

“You’re one of those reds?”

“You win; we’re reds, as you call them.”

“And what do you figure to do with your strike?”

“Don’t get us wrong, Mr. Anderson. We didn’t start it. Gillray, Martin and Hunter started it. They told you what to pay the men, didn’t they?”

“Well, the Growers’ Association did. Torgas Finance Company runs that.”

“O.K. We didn’t start it. But once it’s started, we want to help it win. We want to keep the men from running to hell, teach ’em to work together. You come in with us, and you’ll never have labor trouble as long as you live.”

Anderson complained, “I don’t know whether I can trust a red.”

“You never tried; but you’ve tried trusting Torgas Finance.”

Anderson smiled coldly. His hands came up on the table, and played together like puppies. “It’ll probably break me, and put me on the road. Christ knows I’m headed for it anyway. Might as well have some fun. I’d give a hell of a lot to stick Chris Hunter.” The coffee boiled over and fizzed fiercely on the stove, and the smell of burning coffee filled the air. The electric light glistened on Anderson’s white eyebrows, and on his stiff hair. He lifted the coffee-pot and wiped the stove carefully with a newspaper. “I’ll pour you out some coffee, Mr. Red.”

But Mac sprang to his feet. “Thanks, but we’ve got to get along. We’ll see you get a square deal out of this. Right now we got a million things to do. Be seeing you tomorrow.” They left the old man standing holding the coffee-pot in his hand. Mac forced a trot across the yard. He muttered, “Jesus, that was ticklish. I was scared I’d slip any minute. What a tough old baby he is. I knew a hunting man’d be tough.”

“I like him,” said Jim.

“Don’t you go liking people, Jim. We can’t waste time liking people.”

“Where’d you get that dope on him about the Finance Company, Mac?”

“Came in the mail tonight. But thank God for those dogs! Jump in, Jim. I’ll turn her over.”

They rattled through the clear night. The little flaring headlamps flickered dizzily along the road. Jim looked up at the sky for a moment. “Lord, I’m excited. Look at the stars, Mac. Millions of ’em.”

“You look at the road,” Mac growled. “Listen, Jim, I just happened to think. That guy this noon means they’ve got us spotted. From now on you be careful, and don’t go away from the crowd very far. If you want to go someplace, see you take about a dozen men with you.”

“You mean they’ll try to get us?”

“You’re damn right! They’ll figure they can stop the ruckus with us out of it.”

“Well, when’re you going to give me something to do, Mac? I’m just following you around like a little dog.”

“You’re learning plenty, kid. When there’s some use for you, I’ll get it out, don’t you worry. You can take out a flock of pickets in a day or so. Turn off to the left, Jim. We won’t be wanting to go through town much from now on.”

Jim bumped the car along rutty side-roads. It was an hour before he came finally to the ranch and turned into the dark road among the apple trees. He throttled down the Ford until it was barely able to fire. The headlights jerked and shivered. Without warning a blinding light cut out through the darkness and fell on the men’s faces. At the same moment two men, muffled in overcoats, stepped into the road ahead. Jim ground the Ford to a stop.

A voice behind the light called, “These are the guys.” One of the overcoated men lounged around the car and leaned on the door. The motor idled unevenly. Because of the light beam, the man leaning on the door was almost invisible. He said, “We want you two out of the Torgas Valley by daylight tomorrow, get it? Out.”

Mac’s foot crept over and pressed Jim’s leg. His voice became a sweet whine. “Wha’s the matter ’th us, mister? We never done nothing.”

The man answered angrily, “Lay off, buddy. We know who you are, and what you are. We want you out."

Mac whined, “If you’re the law, we’re citizens. We got a right to stand trial. I pay taxes back home.”

“Well, go home and pay ’em. This isn’t the law: this is a citizens’ committee. If you think you God-damned reds can come in here and raise hell, you’re crazy. You get out of here in your tin can or you’ll go out in a box. Get it?”

Jim felt Mac’s foot creep under his legs and find the gear pedal of the Ford. Jim tapped the foot with his toe to show he understood. The old engine staggered around and around. Sometimes one cylinder missed fire, sometimes two. Mac said, “You got us wrong, mister. We’re just workin’ stiffs. We don’t want no trouble.”

“I said ‘out.’”

“Well, leave us get our stuff.”

“Listen, you’re turning right around and getting out.”

Mac cried, “You’re yellow, that’s what you are. You put twenty men hiding along the road. You’re yellow as hell.”

“Who’s yellow? There’s just three of us. But if you’re not out of the Valley by morning, there’ll be fifty.”

“Step on it, Jim!”

The engine roared. The Ford bucked ahead like a horse. The man on the side spun off into the darkness, and the man in front jumped for his life. The rattling car leaped over the road with a noise of falling andirons.

Mac looked over his shoulder. “The flashlight’s gone,” he shouted.

Jim ran the car behind the long building. They jumped out and sprinted around the end of the bunk house.

The space in front of the doorways was dense with men standing in groups, talking in low tones. On the doorsteps the women sat, hugging their skirts down around their knees. A droning, monotonous hum of talk came from the groups. At least five hundred men were there, men from other ranches. The tough kid Jim had spoken to stalked near. “Didn’t believe me, huh? Well, how’s this look to you?”

Mac asked him, “Seen London?”

“Sure I seen him. We elected him chairman. He’s in his room now with the committee. Thought I was nuts, didn’t you?” he said to Jim. “I told you I was on the in.”

Mac and Jim edged their way among the crowded men and into the hum of voices. London’s door was closed, and his window was closed. A press of men stood on tiptoe and looked through the glass into the lighted room. Mac started up the steps. Two men threw themselves in his way. “What the hell do you want?”

“We want to see London.”

“Yeah? Does London want to see you?”

“Ask him, why don’t you?”

“What’s your name?”

“Tell London Doc and Jim want to see him.”

“You’re the guy that helped the girl have a kid?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I’ll ask.” The man opened the door and stepped inside. A second later he emerged and held the door open. “Go right on in, boys, London’s waitin’ for you.”

London’s room had been hurriedly made into an office by bringing in boxes for seats. London sat on his bed, his tonsured head forward. A committee of seven men stood, sat on boxes, smoked cigarettes. They turned their heads when Jim and Mac entered. London looked glad. “Hello, Doc. Hello, Jim. Glad to see you. Heard the news?”

Mac flopped down on a box. “Heard nothing,” he said. “Me and Jim been covering ground. What happened?”

“Well, it seems to be all right. Dakin’s crowd went out. There’s a guy named Burke, chairman on the Gillray place. There’s a meetin’ of everybody called for tomorrow.”

“Fine,” said Mac. “Workin’ out fine. But we can’t do much till we get an executive committee and a general chairman.”

London asked, “How’d you come out on that thing you went for? I didn’t tell the boys, case it didn’t come off.”

“Got it.” Mac turned to the seven men. “Listen,” he said. “A guy’s loaned us five acres for the guys to camp on. It’s private property, so nobody but the health people can kick us off. We got a doctor coming down to take care of that.” The committeemen set up straight, grinning with enthusiasm. Mac continued, “Now I’ve promised this farmer that the men’d pick his crop for nothing. It won’t take ’em long. There’s plenty of water. It’s a good central location, too.”

One of the men stood up excitedly. “Can I go tell the guys outside, London?”

“Sure, go ahead. Where is this place, Doc? We can have our big meetin’ there tomorrow.”

“It’s Anderson’s orchard, a little way out of town.” Three of the committeemen broke for the door, to tell the news. Outside there was first a silence, and then a roll of voices, not shouting, but talking excitedly; and the roll spread out and grew louder, until the air was full of it.

Jim asked, “What happened to old Dan?”

London raised his head. “They wanted to take him to a hospital. He wouldn’t do no good in a hospital. We got a doctor to set his hip. He’s down the row a little. Couple of good women takin’ care of the poor old bum. He’s havin’ a fine time. Couldn’t get ’im out of here now. He just gives everybody hell, women and all.”

Mac asked, “Have you heard from the owners yet?”

“Yeah, ‘super’ came in. Asked if we was goin’ back to work. We says ‘no.’ He says, ’Get the hell off the place by morning.’ Says he’ll have a trainload of stiffs in here by mornin’.”

“He won’t,” Mac interrupted. “He can’t get ’em in before day after tomorrow. It takes some time to hand-pick a bunch of scabs. And day after tomorrow we’ll be ready for ’em. Say, London, some guys that call ’emselves a committee tried to run me and Jim out of the Valley. Better pass the word to the guys not to go out alone. Tell ’em if they want to go any place take some friends along for company.”

London nodded at one of his committeemen. “Pass the word, Sam.” Sam went out. Again the roll of voices spreading out and rumbling, like a wave over round stones. This time the tone was deep and angry.

Mac slowly rolled a brown cigarette. “I’m tired,” he said. “We got so much to do. I guess we can do it tomorrow.”

“Go to bed,” said London. “You been goin’ like a fool.”

“Yep, I been goin’, all right. Seems kind of hard when you’re tired. They got guns. We can’t have no guns. They got money. They can buy our boys. Five bucks looks like a hell of a lot of jack to these poor half-starved bastards. Be pretty sure before you tell anythin’, London. After all, you can’t blame the guys much if they sell out. We got to be clever and mean and quick.” His voice had grown sad. “If we don’t win, we got to start all over again. It’s too bad. We could win so easy, if the guys would only stick together. We could just kick Billy Hell out of the owners. No guns, no money. We got to do it with our hands and our teeth.” His head jerked up. London was grinning in sympathy, embarrassed, as men are when one of their number opens his heart.

Mac’s heavy face flushed with shame. “I’m tired. You guys carry it while me and Jim get some sleep. Oh, London, in the mail tomorrow there’ll be a package for Alex Little. It’s handbills. Ought to be in by eight o’clock. Send some of the guys down to get it, will you? And see the handbills get around. They ought to do some good. Come on, Jim. Let’s sleep.”

They lay in their room in the dark. Outside the men sat and waited, and the murmur of their voices penetrated the walls and seemed to penetrate the world. Away, in town, a switch engine crashed back and forth making up a train. The night milk trucks rumbled over the highway beside the orchard. Then oddly, sweetly, someone played a few tunes on a harmonica, and the murmur of voices stopped and the men listened. It was quiet outside, except for the harmonica, so quiet that Jim heard a rooster crowing before he went to sleep.