Dick settled himself more comfortably in the truck and said slowly and deliberately, drawling out his words: “I’ll tell you something, Dad—”
“You? You’re the right one to tell me something!”
“All right then, I won’t. I’ve got time. It isn’t my cotton, you know, it’s yours.”
Dick withdrew into sulky silence. The old man flew into a rage. “Well, damn it all, speak up! Or must I stand here until the cotton rots?”
“You see, Dad, that’s exactly what I mean: until the cotton rots. If the men leave, we won’t get any more help from around here. And if we recruit men from the towns we’ll have to pay more in fares than the whole thing’s worth.”
“Well, talk faster, can’t you?”
“I must think what I’m going to say. Look here, Dad, it’s rained once already. And it looks as if we’re going to get a very early rainy season or maybe a whole week of strip rain. If we do, it’ll be good-bye to the cotton for good. It’ll all be beaten into the mud, and you’ll have to look for someone who’ll buy sand, let alone cotton. The quicker we get the cotton ginned and marketed, the better chance we’ll have on the price. Once the market is saturated we’ll be glad if we get rid of it at a loss of twenty or twenty-five centavos the bale; that is, if we can sell it at all. So far we’ve made very good time in picking, and should be among the first on the market.”
“Damn it all, boy, you’re damned well right! Four years ago I had to sell at thirty centavos below the starting price and stood there like a beggar bumming for a bit of bread. But I’m not so mad that I’ll pay eight centavos! I used to pay only three, and when the cotton stood badly, four. No! I’d ten times rather leave it to rot than give in!”
So saying he hit out at a shrub as though he wanted to raze the entire field with one swat. Then in his anger, another idea occurred to him.
“It’s the foreigners who are to blame for this. They come here and incite our people. They can never get enough to stuff into their big mouths. Our people around here aren’t dissatisfied. Yes, and you too, Gales, you’re one of the agitators. You’re one of those bolshies who want to turn everything upside down and take our land away from us, and even pull our beds out from under our backsides. But you got the wrong man in me. I’ve been in that racket too. I know my way about and I know how it’s done. Only we didn’t have any IWW or any of that nonsense.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Shine, you’re quite at liberty to speak your mind. But, by the way, what makes you think I’m a Wobbly? I haven’t given you any indications.”
“I know your kind. You’re trying to bring in your ideas here before this Revolution is over. It won’t be long, though, before it’ll have failed completely. Well, I didn’t mean you exactly. But I won’t pay eight and that’s that!”
“Now listen, Dad" — Pete spoke without turning toward his father — “you’re wrong about the foreigners, absolutely wrong. The four foreigners are picking more than the natives, The Indians only pick a bit because they see the foreigners at work, but they don’t care about earning more. If they make one peso they’re quite content. They prefer to have a five-hour siesta — that’s much more important to them. You can bet your boots that without the foreigners we wouldn’t be able to get the cotton in before Christmas.”
“But I’m not paying, and that’s the end of it.”
“In that case I’ll start the engine and we can drive home,” Dick said dryly, and slowly came down from the truck.
The two hours agreed on were far from over, but the “locals” were getting restless. They caught their mules and
began to saddle them. Just as some of them were about to mount, Antonio and Gonzalo jumped up, threw their wide-brimmed sombreros high into the air, and began to sing the song of the cotton-pickers, which I had taught them during our evenings around the campfire.
“Cotton is worn by king and prince,
Millionaire and president,
But the lowly cotton-picker
Sweats to earn each bloody cent…”
The men immediately ceased handling their animals and stood as still as soldiers under orders. They had never heard the song before but with the instinct of the burdened they felt that this was their song, and that it was as closely allied to their strike, the first strike of their experience, as a hymn is allied to religion. They didn’t know what the IWW was, what a labor organization meant, what class distinctions were. But the singing they heard went straight to their hearts. The words were as the breath of life to them, and the song welded them together as into a block of steel. A first dim awareness of the immense power and strength of the working people united in a common purpose was awakened in them.
By the time the first refrain was repeated, the whole field was singing. I knew what was likely to happen if the last refrain were reached without the desired answer having been received. I knew it from experience.
The song, so simple and monotonous in its melody, but in its resounding rhythm as springy as fine steel, infected me. I couldn’t help it. I began to hum it too.
“Of course, you would!” said Mr. Shine, half sarcastically, half matter-of-factly. “I knew it!”
At the second refrain the men, who had been standing around near their mules in a loosely formed group, turned toward Mr. Shine; they stood as one man, their song taking on a provocative, direct significance.
Mr. Shine fumbled nervously at his belt to unfasten his revolver holster, only to fasten it again with a look of embarrassment, in which could be detected also shame, and even resignation.
“Confound it all!” he exclaimed. “They look as if they mean business.”
“So they do,” Pete said, still chewing. “And once they’ve gone, we’ll have the devil’s own job to get them to come back again.”
“Right,” said Mr. Shine. “I’ll pay eight, but only from today. What’s paid is paid and there’s going to be no back pay. Gales,” he turned to me, “would you be good enough to call the men?”
I ran over and called them together.
“Well, what about it?” the men asked Mr. Shine as they approached the scales.
“It’s all right, it’s settled,” he said, half irate and half condescending. “I pay eight per kilo, but—”
Antonio didn’t let him finish: “And what about the kilos we’ve already picked?”
“I’ll pay the difference of two centavos. But now get to work so we can get the cotton in before the rains come.”
“Hurrah fo’ Mister Shine ! ” shouted Abraham.
“Keep your mouth shut, damn you. Nobody’s asked you to shout!” roared the farmer in a fury.
“But what am I going to do with you, Gales?” he asked, keeping me back as the men were leaving. “You’re already getting eight.”
“Yes,” I said, “so that evens things up.”
“No. One man’s pay won’t make much difference to me. After all, you’re the only white in the gang. I’ll give you ten.”
“With back pay?” I laughed.
“With back pay. I’m a fair businessman. Now, why are you hanging around? Hurry up, get along with the work. We’ve wasted, God knows, practically an hour talking. And any hour the rain might come.
Then, turning to his two sons, who were just in the act of hanging up the scales, he said: “I’m going to make you pay, you two; take my word for it!”
6
Nothing much happened during the following three weeks. One day was like the next — picking cotton, cooking, eating, sleeping, picking cotton…
Then one afternoon, when I got back from the cotton field, I went over to the big house to see if Mrs. Shine could sell me some bacon, or loan it to me until Sunday, as I’d forgotten to ask the fellows to get me some when they went shopping.