“And a daughter, too,” Saxon amplified.
“An' I'll be the old geezer sayin' them same words to the hired man,” Billy carried the fancy along. “It don't take long to raise a daughter if you ain't in a hurry.”
Saxon took her long-neglected ukulele from its case and strummed it into tune.
“And I've a song you never heard, Billy. Tom's always singing it. He's crazy about taking up government land and going farming, only Sarah won't think of it. He sings it something like this:
“We'll have a little farm, A pig, a horse, a cow, And you will drive the wagon, And I will drive the plow.”
“Only in this case I guess it's me that'll do the plowin',” Billy approved. “Say, Saxon, sing 'Harvest Days.' That's a farmer's song, too.”
After that she feared the coffee was growing cold and compelled Billy to take it. In the helplessness of two broken arms, he had to be fed like a baby, and as she fed him they talked.
“I'll tell you one thing,” Billy said, between mouthfuls. “Once we get settled down in the country you'll have that horse you've been wishin' for all your life. An' it'll be all your own, to ride, drive, sell, or do anything you want with.”
And, again, he ruminated: “One thing that'll come handy in the country is that I know horses; that's a big start. I can always get a job at that—if it ain't at union wages. An' the other things about farmin' I can learn fast enough.—Say, d'ye remember that day you first told me about wantin' a horse to ride all your life?”
Saxon remembered, and it was only by a severe struggle that she was able to keep the tears from welling into her eyes. She seemed bursting with happiness, and she was remembering many things—all the warm promise of life with Billy that had been hers in the days before hard times. And now the promise was renewed again. Since its fulfillment had not come to them, they were going away to fulfill it for themselves and make the moving pictures come true.