Pa spoke generally to the circle. "It's dirt hard for folks to tear up an' go. Folks like
us that had our place. We ain't shif'less. Till we got tractored off, we was people with a
farm."
A young thin man, with eyebrows sunburned yellow, turned his head slowly.
"Croppin'?" he asked.
"Sure we was sharecroppin'. Use' ta own the place."
The young man faced forward again. "Same as us," he said.
"Lucky for us it ain't gonna las' long," said Pa. "We'll get out west an' we'll get work
an' we'll get a piece a growin' land with water."
Near the edge of the porch a ragged man stood. His black coat dripped torn
streamers. The knees were gone from his dungarees. His face was black with dust, and
lined where sweat had washed through. He swung his head toward Pa. "You folks must
have a nice little pot a money."
"No, we ain't got no money," Pa said. "But they's plenty of us to work, an' we're all
good men. Get good wages out there an' we'll put 'em together. We'll make out."
The ragged man stared while Pa spoke, and then he laughed, and his laughter turned
to a high whinnying giggle. The circle of faces turned to him. The giggling got out of
control and turned into coughing. His eyes  were red and watering when he finally
controlled the spasms. "You goin' out there—oh, Christ!" The giggling started again.
"You goin' out an' get—good wages—oh, Christ!" He stopped and said slyly, "Pickin'
oranges maybe? Gonna pick peaches?"
Pa's tone was dignified. "We gonna take what they got. They got lots a stuff to work
in." The ragged man giggled under his breath.
Tom turned irritably. "What's so goddamn funny about that?"
The ragged man shut his mouth and looked sullenly at the porch boards. "You folks
all goin' to California, I bet."
"I tol' you that," said Pa. "You didn' guess nothin'."
The ragged man said slowly, "Me—I'm comin' back. I been there."
The faces turned quickly toward him. The men were rigid. The hiss of the lantern
dropped to a sigh and the proprietor lowered the front chair legs to the porch, stood up,
and pumped the lantern until the hiss was sharp and high again. He went back to his
chair, but he did not tilt back again. The ragged man turned toward the faces. "I'm goin'
back to starve. I ruther starve all over at oncet."
Pa said, "What the hell you talkin' about? I got a han'bill says they got good wages,
an' little while ago I seen a thing in the paper says they need folks to pick fruit."
The ragged man turned to Pa. "You got any place to go, back home?"

"No," said Pa. "We're out. They put a tractor past the house."
"You wouldn' go back then?"
"'Course not."
"Then I ain't gonna fret you," said the ragged man.
"'Course you ain't gonna fret me. I got a han'bill says they need men. Don't make no
sense if they don't need men. Costs money for them bills. They wouldn' put 'em out if
they didn' need men."
"I don' wanna fret you."
Pa said angrily, "You done some jackassin'. You ain't gonna shut up now. My
han'bill says they need men. You laugh an' say they don't. Now, which one's a liar?"
The ragged man looked down into Pa's angry eyes. He looked sorry. "Han'bill's
right," he said. "They need men."
"Then why the hell you stirrin' us up laughin'?"
"'Cause you don't know what kind a men they need."
"What you talkin' about?"
The ragged man reached a decision. "Look", he said. "How many men they say they
want on your han'bill?"
"Eight hunderd, an' that's in one little place."
"Orange color han'bill?"
"Why—yes."
"Give the name a the fella—says so and so, labor contractor?"
Pa reached in his pocket and brought out the folded handbill. "That's right. How'd
you know?"
"Look," said the man. "It don't make no sense. This fella wants eight hunderd men.
So he prints up five thousand of them things an' maybe twenty thousan' people sees
'em. An' maybe two-three thousan' folks gets movin' account a this here han'bill. Folks
that's crazy with worry."
"But it don't make no sense!" Pa cried.
"Not till you see the fella that put out this here bill. You'll see him, or somebody
that's workin' for him. You'll be a-campin' by a ditch, you an' fifty other famblies. An'
he'll look in your tent an' see if you got anything lef' to eat. An' if you got nothin', he
says, 'Wanna job?' An' you'll say, 'I sure do, mister. I'll sure thank you for a chance to
do some work.' 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. Put it on his paper. Shiverin', they  was, an' their bellies  stuck out like a pig
bladder."
The circle was quiet, and mouths were open a little. The men breathed shallowly,
and watched.
The ragged man looked around at the circle, and then he turned and walked quickly
away into the darkness. The dark swallowed him, but his dragging footsteps could be
heard a long time after he had gone, footsteps along the road; and a car came by on the
highway, and its lights showed the ragged  man shuffling along the road, his head
hanging down and his hands in the black coat pockets.
The men were uneasy. One said, "Well—gettin' late. Got to get to sleep."
The proprietor said, "Prob'ly shif'less. They's so goddamn many shif'less fellas on
the road now." And then he was quiet. And he tipped his chair back against the wall
again and fingered his throat.