The Beechams saw more and more signs on fences
and poles: FIVE HUNDRED PICKERS WANTED!
"They don't say how much they pay," Grandma noticed.
"Ninety cents a hundred pounds is usual this year, and a fellow
can make a bare living at that," said Daddy.
Soon the procession turned off the road, the Beechams with it.
The place was swarming with pickers.
"How much are you paying?" Daddy asked.
"Fifty cents a hundred."
"Why, man alive, we'd starve on that pay," Daddy growled, the
corners of his jaws white with anger.
"You don't need to work if you don't want to," the manager barked
at him. "Here's two thousand folks glad to work at fifty cents."
Leaving Jimmie to mind Sally in the car, the Beechams went to
picking at once. Grandma had saved their old cotton sacks,
fortunately, since they cost a dollar apiece.
Rose-Ellen's heart thumped as if she were running a race.
Everyone was picking at top speed, for there were far too many
pickers and they all tried to get more than their share. The
Beechams started at noon. At night, when they weighed in, Grandpa
and Daddy each got forty cents, Grandma twenty-five, Dick twenty,
and Rose-Ellen fifteen.
When he paid them, the foreman said, "No more work here. All
cleaned up."
"Good land," Grandma protested, her voice shaking, "bring us from
Coloraydo for a half day's work?"
"Sorry," said the foreman.
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