Thomas interrupted him. “Yes, I been thinkin’ too.” He swung around and faced them. “I’ve got some things to tell you. I been paying you thirty cents an hour—that right?”
“Why, sure, Mr. Thomas—but—”
“And I been getting thirty cents’ worth of work.” His heavy hard hands clasped each other.
“We try to give a good day of work.”
“Well, goddamn it, this morning you’re getting twenty-five cents an hour, and you take it or leave it.” The redness of his face deepened with anger.
Timothy said, “We’ve give you good work. You said so yourself.”
“I know it. But it seems like I ain’t hiring my own men any more.”
He swallowed. “Look,” he said. “I got sixty-five acres here. Did you ever hear of the Farmers’ Association?”
“Why, sure.”
“Well, I belong to it. We had a meeting last night. Now, do you know who runs the Farmers Association? I’ll tell you. The Bank of the West. That bank owns most of this valley, and it’s got paper on everything it don’t own. So last night the member from the bank told me, he said, ’You’re paying thirty cents an hour. You’d better cut it down to twenty-five.’ I said, ’I’ve got good men. They’re worth thirty.’ And he says, ’It isn’t that,’ he says. ’The wage is twenty-five now. If you pay thirty, it’ll only cause unrest. And by the way,’ he says, ’you going to need the usual amount for a crop loan next year?’” Thomas stopped. His breath was panting through his lips. “You see? The rate is twenty-five cents—and like it.”