Thomas walked away toward the house. “I’ll be out in a piece,” he said. “You men get to work.” The screen door slammed behind him.
The three men walked out past the little white-washed barn, and along a field edge. They came to a long narrow ditch with sections of concrete pipe lying beside it.
“Here’s where we’re a-workin’,” Wilkie said.
His father opened the barn and passed out two picks and three shovels. And he said to Tom, “Here’s your beauty.”
Tom hefted the pick. “Jumping Jesus! If she don’t feel good!”
“Wait’ll about ’leven o’clock,” Wilkie suggested. “See how good she feels then.”
They walked to the end of the ditch. Tom took off his coat and dropped it on the dirt pile. He pushed up his cap and stepped into the ditch. Then he spat on his hands. The pick arose into the air and flashed down. Tom grunted softly. The pick rose and fell, and the grunt came at the moment it sank into the ground and loosened the soil.
Wilkie said, “Yes, sir, Pa, we got here a first-grade muckstick man. This here boy been married to that there little digger.”
Tom said, “I put in time ( umph ). Yes, sir, I sure did ( umph ). Put in my years ( umph! ). Kinda like the feel ( umph! ).” The soil loosened ahead of him. The sun cleared the fruit trees now and the grape leaves were golden green on the vines. Six feet along and Tom stepped aside and wiped his forehead. Wilkie came behind him. The shovel rose and fell and the dirt flew out to the pile beside the lengthening ditch.
“I heard about this here Central Committee,” said Tom. “So you’re one of ’em.”