“We done good work,” Timothy said helplessly.
“Ain’t you got it yet? Mr. Bank hires two thousand men an’ I hire three. I’ve got paper to meet. Now if you can figure some way out, by Christ, I’ll take it! They got me.”
Timothy shook his head. “I don’ know what to say.”
“You wait here.” Thomas walked quickly to the house. The door slammed after him. In a moment he was back, and he carried a newspaper in his hand. “Did you see this? Here, I’ll read it: ’Citizens, angered at red agitators, burn squatters’ camp. Last night a band of citizens, infuriated at the agitation going on in a local squatters’ camp, burned the tents to the ground and warned agitators to get out of the county.’”
Tom began, “Why, I—” and then he closed his mouth and was silent.
Thomas folded the paper carefully and put it in his pocket. He had himself in control again. He said quietly, “Those men were sent out by the Association. Now I’m giving ’em away. And if they ever find out I told, I won’t have a farm next year.”
“I jus’ don’t know what to say,” Timothy said. “If they was agitators, I can see why they was mad.”
Thomas said, “I watched it a long time. There’s always red agitators just before a pay cut. Always. Goddamn it, they got me trapped. Now, what are you going to do? Twenty-five cents?”
Timothy looked at the ground. “I’ll work,” he said.
“Me too,” said Wilkie.