"A dollar a day and grub," was the answer.
Ross Shanklin swallowed and braced himself.
"I'll pick grapes all right, or anything. But what's the chance for a steady job? You've got a big ranch here. I know hosses. I was born on one. I can drive team, ride, plough, break, do anything that anybody ever done with hosses."
The other looked him over with an appraising, incredulous eye.
"You don't look it," was the judgment.
"I know I don't. Give me a chance. That's all. I'll prove it."
The farmer considered, casting an anxious glance at the cloud bank into which the sun had sunk.
"I'm short a teamster, and I'll give you the chance to make good. Go and get supper with the hands."
Ross Shanklin's voice was very husky, and he spoke with an effort.
"All right. I'll make good. Where can I get a drink of water and wash up?"