"Paid!" exclaimed another, laughing ironically, out of the open door. "I'm a tailor, and I've worked for two months past for my board."
"But, my good people," said the little fellow, dolefully, "why, it must be dreadful here in America, then. What is one to do?"
"It's not so bad as the people make out," interposed a farmer, who now joined them, and whose clean clothes and white fine linen bespoke a certain easiness of circumstances. "It's not so bad," he repeated, "only you must not suppose that roast pigeons fly about, crying, 'come eat me!' First learn the ways and customs, first learn the language of the country, and you'll work yourself into the whole system of the people with whom you have to mix. Only don't stop in the towns; out into the country, become countrymen, breed cattle; if you have to work for small wages at first, what matter; every man must pay his apprenticeship-fee, and don't suppose that you can escape doing that here. If for a year, or even two, things go ill with you, don't abuse the country and the people directly; no one drops from the sky a master ready-made, and good work must bide good time."
"Well, that sounds reasonable," said the brewer; "there's no great lamentation about the matter, nor does he overpraise the thing; so there's some hope left, that, after awhile, we may earn something on our land."
"Bought already?" said the farmer.
"Yes; a whole company."
"Good land?"
"It's said to be very good; we haven't seen it yet."
"And bought already; well, that is old-countryman like; the Americans don't do things that way; they see the land first, and then they don't always buy it exactly; they go on Congress land, which they have to pay for in a couple of years, and with their ready money buy cattle; that doubles its value in three years, and is as good as thirty-three or forty per cent. Where is your land, then?"
"In Tennessee, on a small river which they call Big Halchee, or something like that; they've got such break-jaw names here."