“Is it hard?”
“Purty. ’Long about three in the afternoon, anyway. It gets you in the back. Then I kinda got to run things—especially when pa’s cuckooed.”
“When pa’s what?”
“Cuckooed—drunk. Takes him four days to get enough, an’ five days to get over his jag. That’s nine days I gotta be bossman.”
No words came to Manzanita now. Brought face to face suddenly with a tragedy, so matter-of-factly introduced into the conversation, she did not know what to say.
“How long have you been a gypo queen?” she asked presently, still thinking of that naïve reference to Jeddo the Crow’s shortcomings.
“Born in a gypo camp.”
“Have you been to school?”
“No. Ma used to teach me, but she died. I c’n read an’ write an’ figger a little. I’m keen about learnin’ things. I read a lot when I ain’t too tired. You see, we’re poor. Somehow we jest about break even on every job we tackle. Pa’d like me to quit th’ road an’ go to school somewheres, but him with his one arm, he couldn’t get along. You been to school a lot, ain’t you? I know by th’ way you say ‘ing’ at th’ end o’ words. Do you read lots?”
“Not so very much,” Manzanita confessed. “I’m usually pretty busy.”