“Read it. Growers in Jersey has been doin’ it these years.”
Eli digested this information and leaned against the wall, watching Penaluna at work.
Eli liked the man’s air of patient power, also his economy of speech. He decided he was to be trusted. “You’re a good farmer, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Penaluna truthfully.
“What’s wrong with our place, Bosula?” Eli inquired.
“Under-manned,” said Penaluna. “Your father had two men besides himself and he worked like a bullock and was clever, I’ve heard tell. Now you’ve got but two, and not a head between ’em. Place is going back. Come three years the trash’ll strangle ’e in your beds.”
Eli took the warning calmly. “We’ll stop that,” he announced.
Penaluna subjected him to a hard scrutiny, spat on his palms, worked the crow-bar into a crevice and tried his weight on it.
“Hum! Maybe—but you’d best start soon.”
Eli nodded and considered again. “Are you clever?”