Floyd said, “Maybe I shouldn’, but—yeah, I’ll tell ya. Fella come through an’ he says they’s gonna be work up north.”
“Up north?”
“Yeah—place called Santa Clara Valley, way to hell an’ gone up north.”
“Yeah? Kinda work?”
“Prune pickin’, an’ pears an’ cannery work. Says it’s purty near ready.”
“How far?” Tom demanded.
“Oh, Christ knows. Maybe two hundred miles.”
“That’s a hell of a long ways,” said Tom. “How we know they’s gonna be work when we get there?”
“Well, we don’ know,” said Floyd. “But they ain’t nothin’ here, an’ this fella says he got a letter from his brother, an’ he’s on his way. He says not to tell nobody, they’ll be too many. We oughta get out in the night. Oughta get there and get some work lined up.”
Tom studied him. “Why we gotta sneak away?”