The old Confederate had told us of another truck farm not far distant where we could probably find employment, so we located a convenient clump of willows and made camp for the night.
Early next morning we applied for work at the farm and were set to the task of weeding onions, ten hours’ work for a dollar a day and board. Slowly the hours dragged past. The noon hour found me far too weary to eat, so I flung myself face down under a tree, while Dan sought the cook house with the other hands.
Once more I began work on the interminable rows. The sun beat down with intense heat, my back seemed literally broken. As I weeded in a daze, a peculiar illusion took possession of my mind. I saw a cosy room in San Francisco, caught a whiff of cooling, bracing fog, fresh from the Pacific, heard the unctuous tones of a well-groomed, fat-jowled, long-haired gentleman who was declaiming to a group of adoring females lengthy verses of his own composition on the “Joy of Labour.” Oh, grave and paunchy poet, would that thou wert here to busy thy soft white hands with gummy weeds and thistles and reap a harvest of joy and onions in my stead!
About three o’clock something happened. I found myself lying under the tree at the side of the field, with Dan pouring water over my face.
“What’s the matter, Dan?” I demanded, bewildered by my new and strange sensations.
“Oh, nothing much. You pitched forward on your head about half an hour ago and I thought you would never come to. You mark my words now. This ends it. You don’t do any more weed pulling or washing or scrubbing on this trip. If I can’t earn the living I’ll beg or steal.”
“It was my back, dear. I haven’t recovered from the thump I got that night in the radiator car. As soon as that spot gets well, I’ll be able to do any kind of work.”
“You may be able, but you won’t do it. I’ll see to that after this. You lie here and meditate on what I’ve been telling you while I finish this infernal day’s work. We’ll beat it into Omaha in the morning and I’ll look for a white man’s job.” With a farewell pat he returned to the weeding, leaving me to fall asleep in utter exhaustion.
We trundled over the long bridge across the Missouri River and passed through Omaha early the following morning. In a grove of trees on the western outskirts of the city, Dan pitched camp and made me as comfortable as possible, then mounted the wheel and rode into Omaha to search for work.
I was stretched full length on the ground, enjoying the rustle of the wind in the tree tops and the murmur of a tiny brook, when my attention was attracted by the sound of footsteps and a moment later a dainty child in a blue pinafore appeared at the edge of the little hollow. I smiled a welcome and she came closer and leaned against a near-by tree.