“The only government land left,” he informed her, “is what is not good enough to take up for one reason or another. If it's good land down there where you're going, then the market is inaccessible. I know no railroads tap in there.”
“Wait till we strike Pajaro Valley,” he said, when they had passed Gilroy and were booming on toward Sargent's. “I'll show you what can be done with the soil—and not by cow-college graduates but by uneducated foreigners that the high and mighty American has always sneered at. I'll show you. It's one of the most wonderful demonstrations in the state.”
At Sargent's he left them in the machine a few minutes while he transacted business.
“Whew! It beats hikin',” Billy said. “The day's young yet and when he drops us we'll be fresh for a few miles on our own. Just the same, when we get settled an' well off, I guess I'll stick by horses. They'll always be good enough for me.”
“A machine's only good to get somewhere in a hurry,” Saxon agreed. “Of course, if we got very, very rich—”
“Say, Saxon,” Billy broke in, suddenly struck with an idea. “I've learned one thing. I ain't afraid any more of not gettin' work in the country. I was at first, but I didn't tell you. Just the same I was dead leery when we pulled out on the San Leandro pike. An' here, already, is two places open—Mrs. Mortimer's an' Benson's; an' steady jobs, too. Yep, a man can get work in the country.”
“Ah,” Saxon amended, with a proud little smile, “you haven't said it right. Any GOOD man can get work in the country. The big farmers don't hire men out of charity.”
“Sure; they ain't in it for their health,” he grinned.
“And they jump at you. That's because you are a good man. They can see it with half an eye. Why, Billy, take all the working tramps we've met on the road already. There wasn't one to compare with you. I looked them over. They're all weak—weak in their bodies, weak in their heads, weak both ways.”
“Yep, they are a pretty measly bunch,” Billy admitted modestly.