‘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.”
“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.
Tom said,
“Seems like I walked into somepin.
Sure, I’ll work.
I got to work.”
Thomas pulled a bandanna out of his hip pocket and wiped his mouth and chin.