An’ he’ll say,
‘I can use you.’
An’ you’ll say,
‘When do I start?’
An’ he’ll tell you where to go, an’ what time, an’ then he’ll go on.
Maybe he needs two hunderd men, so he talks to five hunderd, an’ they tell other folks, an’ when you get to the place, they’s a thousan’ men.
This here fella says,
‘I’m payin’ twenty cents an hour.’
An’ maybe half a the men walk off.
But they’s still five hunderd that’s so goddamn hungry they’ll work for nothin’ but biscuits.
Well, this here fella’s got a contract to pick them peaches or—chop that cotton.
You see now?
The more fellas he can get, an’ the hungrier, less he’s gonna pay.
An’ he’ll get a fella with kids if he can, ’cause—hell, I says I wasn’t gonna fret ya.”
The circle of faces looked coldly at him.
The eyes tested his words.
The ragged man grew self-conscious.
“I says I wasn’t gonna fret ya, an’ here I’m a-doin’ it. You gonna go on.
You ain’t goin’ back.”
The silence hung on the porch.
And the light hissed, and a halo of moths swung around and around the lantern.
The ragged man went on nervously,
“Lemme tell ya what to do when ya meet that fella says he got work.
Lemme tell ya.
Ast him what he’s gonna pay.
Ast him to write down what he’s gonna pay.
Ast him that.
I tell you men you’re gonna get fooled if you don’t.”
The proprietor leaned forward in his chair, the better to see the ragged dirty man. He scratched among the gray hairs on his chest.
He said coldly,
“You sure you ain’t one of these here troublemakers?
You sure you ain’t a labor faker?”
And the ragged man cried,
“I swear to God I ain’t!”
“They’s plenty of ’em,” the proprietor said. “Goin’ aroun’ stirrin’ up trouble.
Gettin’ folks mad.
Chiselin’ in. They’s plenty of ’em.
Time’s gonna come when we string ’em all up, all them troublemakers.
We gonna run ’em outa the country.
Man wants to work, O.K.
If he don’t—the hell with him.
We ain’t gonna let him stir up trouble.”
The ragged man drew himself up.
“I tried to tell you folks,” he said. “Somepin it took me a year to find out.
Took two kids dead, took my wife dead to show me.
But I can’t tell you. I should of knew that.
Nobody couldn’t tell me, neither.
I can’t tell ya about them little fellas layin’ in the tent with their bellies puffed out an’ jus’ skin on their bones, an’ shiverin’ an’ whinin’ like pups, an’ me runnin’ aroun’ tryin’ to get work—not for money, not for wages!” he shouted. “Jesus Christ, jus’ for a cup a flour an’ a spoon a lard.
An’ then the coroner come.
‘Them children died a heart failure,’ he said.