“It looks as though they'd crowd our kind out,” Saxon adjudged.
“Some tall crowdin', I guess,” Billy grumbled. “It looks like the free-born American ain't got no room left in his own land.”
“Then it's his own fault,” Saxon said, with vague asperity, resenting conditions she was just beginning to grasp.
“Oh, I don't know about that. I reckon the American could do what the Porchugeeze do if he wanted to. Only he don't want to, thank God. He ain't much given to livin' like a pig offen leavin's.”
“Not in the country, maybe,” Saxon controverted. “But I've seen an awful lot of Americans living like pigs in the cities.”
Billy grunted unwilling assent. “I guess they quit the farms an' go to the city for something better, an' get it in the neck.”
“Look at all the children!” Saxon cried. “School's letting out. And nearly all are Portuguese, Billy, NOT Porchugeeze. Mercedes taught me the right way.”
“They never wore glad rags like them in the old country,” Billy sneered. “They had to come over here to get decent clothes and decent grub. They're as fat as butterballs.”
Saxon nodded affirmation, and a great light seemed suddenly to kindle in her understanding.
“That's the very point, Billy. They're doing it—doing it farming, too. Strikes don't bother THEM.”