“What you payin’, mister?”
“Ninety cents.”
“We’ll pick. I hear fellas say nex’ year it’ll be seventy-five or even sixty.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“They’ll be trouble,” said Ma. “Sure. I know. Little fella like me can’t do anything. The Association sets the rate, and we got to mind. If we don’t—we ain’t got a farm. Little fella gets crowded all the time.”
They came to the camp. “We’ll be there,” Ma said. “Not much pickin’ lef’.” She went to the end boxcar and climbed the cleated walk. The low light of the lantern made gloomy shadows in the car. Pa and Uncle John and an elderly man squatted against the car wall.
“Hello,” Ma said. “Evenin’, Mr. Wainwright.”
He raised a delicately chiseled face. His eyes were deep under the ridges of his brows. His hair was blue-white and fine. A patina of silver beard covered his jaws and chin. “Evenin’, ma’am,” he said.
“We got pickin’ tomorra,” Ma observed. “Mile north. Twenty acres.”
“Better take the truck, I guess,” Pa said. “Get in more pickin’.” Wainwright raised his head eagerly. “S’pose we can pick?”