A young thin man, with eyebrows sunburned yellow, turned his head slowly. “Croppin’?” he asked.
“Sure we was sharecroppin’. Use’ ta own the place.”
The young man faced forward again. “Same as us,” he said.
“Lucky for us it ain’t gonna las’ long,” said Pa. “We’ll get out west an’ we’ll get work an’ we’ll get a piece a growin’ land with water.”
Near the edge of the porch a ragged man stood. His black coat dripped torn streamers. The knees were gone from his dungarees. His face was black with dust, and lined where sweat had washed through. He swung his head toward Pa. “You folks must have a nice little pot a money.”
“No, we ain’t got no money,” Pa said. “But they’s plenty of us to work, an’ we’re all good men. Get good wages out there an’ we’ll put ’em together. We’ll make out.”
The ragged man stared while Pa spoke, and then he laughed, and his laughter turned to a high whinnying giggle. The circle of faces turned to him. The giggling got out of control and turned into coughing. His eyes were red and watering when he finally controlled the spasms. “You goin’ out there—oh, Christ!” The giggling started again. “You goin’ out an’ get—good wages—oh, Christ!” He stopped and said slyly, “Pickin’ oranges maybe? Gonna pick peaches?”
Pa’s tone was dignified. “We gonna take what they got. They got lots a stuff to work in.” The ragged man giggled under his breath. Tom turned irritably. “What’s so goddamn funny about that?”
The ragged man shut his mouth and looked sullenly at the porch boards. “You folks all goin’ to California, I bet.”
“I tol’ you that,” said Pa. “You didn’ guess nothin’.”