virtuoso trilled.
Jim hurried down his ladder and carried his bucket to the box pile and emptied the load. The checker, a blond young man in washed white corduroys, made a mark in his book and nodded his head. “Don’t dump ’em in so hard, buddy,” he warned. “You’ll bruise ’em.”
“O.K.,” said Jim. He walked back to his ladder, drumming on the bucket with his knee as he went. Up the ladder he climbed, and he hooked the wire of the bale-hook over a limb. And then in the tree he saw another man, who had stepped off the ladder and stood on a big limb. He reached high over his head for a cluster of apples. He felt the tree shudder under Jim’s weight and looked down.
“Hello, kid. I didn’t know this was your tree.”
Jim stared up at him, a lean old man with black eyes and a sparse, chewed beard. The veins stood out heavy and blue on his hands. His legs seemed as thin and straight as sticks, too thin for the big feet with great heavy-soled shoes.
Jim said, “I don’t give a damn about the tree. Aren’t you too old to be climbing around like a monkey, Dad?”
The old man spat and watched the big white drop hit the ground. His bleak eyes grew fierce. “That’s what you think,” he said. “Lots of young punks think I’m too old. I can out-work you any day in the week, and don’t you forget it, neither.” He put an artificial springiness in his knees as he spoke. He reached up and picked the whole cluster of apples, twig and all, skinned the apples into his bucket and contemptuously dropped the twig on the ground.
The voice of the checker called, “Careful of those trees, over there.”
The old man grinned maliciously, showing two upper and two lower yellow teeth, long and sloped outward, like a gopher’s teeth. “Busy bastard, ain’t he,” he remarked to Jim.
“College boy,” said Jim. “Every place you go you run into ’em.”
The old man squatted down on his limb. “And what do they know?” he demanded. “They go to them colleges, and they don’t learn a God damn thing. That smart guy with the little book couldn’t keep his ass dry in a barn.” He spat again.
“They get pretty smart, all right,” Jim agreed.
“Now you and me,” the old man went on, “We know—not much, maybe, but what we know we know good.”
Jim was silent for a moment, and then he lanced at the old man’s pride as he had heard Mac do to other men. “You don’t know enough to keep out of a tree when you’re seventy. I don’t know enough to wear white cords and make pencil marks in a little book.”
The old man snarled, “We got no pull, that’s what. You got to have pull to get an easy job. We just get rode over because we got no pull.”
“Well, what you going to do about it?”
The question seemed to let air out of the old man. His anger disappeared. His eyes grew puzzled and a little frightened. “Christ only knows,” he said. “We just take it, that’s all. We move about the country like a bunch of hogs and get beat on the ass by a college boy.”
“It’s not his fault,” said Jim. “He’s just got a job. If he’s going to keep the job, he’s got to do it.”
The old man reached for another cluster of apples, picked them with little twisting lifts and put each one carefully into his bucket. “When I was a young man, I used to think somethin’ could be done,” he said,” but I’m seventy-one.” His voice was tired.
A truck went by, carrying off the filled boxes. The oldman continued, “I was in the north woods when the Wobblies was raising hell. I’m a top-faller, a damn good one. Maybe you noticed how I take to a tree at my age. Well, I had hopes then. ’Course the Wobblies done some good, used to be there was no crappers but a hole in the ground, and no place to take a bath. The meat used to spoil. Well, them Wobblies made ’em put in toilets and showers; but, hell, it all went to pieces.” His hand went up automatically for more apples. “I joined unions,”
Jim hurried down his ladder and carried his bucket to the box pile and emptied the load. The checker, a blond young man in washed white corduroys, made a mark in his book and nodded his head. “Don’t dump ’em in so hard, buddy,” he warned. “You’ll bruise ’em.”
“O.K.,” said Jim. He walked back to his ladder, drumming on the bucket with his knee as he went. Up the ladder he climbed, and he hooked the wire of the bale-hook over a limb. And then in the tree he saw another man, who had stepped off the ladder and stood on a big limb. He reached high over his head for a cluster of apples. He felt the tree shudder under Jim’s weight and looked down.
“Hello, kid. I didn’t know this was your tree.”
Jim stared up at him, a lean old man with black eyes and a sparse, chewed beard. The veins stood out heavy and blue on his hands. His legs seemed as thin and straight as sticks, too thin for the big feet with great heavy-soled shoes.
Jim said, “I don’t give a damn about the tree. Aren’t you too old to be climbing around like a monkey, Dad?”
The old man spat and watched the big white drop hit the ground. His bleak eyes grew fierce. “That’s what you think,” he said. “Lots of young punks think I’m too old. I can out-work you any day in the week, and don’t you forget it, neither.” He put an artificial springiness in his knees as he spoke. He reached up and picked the whole cluster of apples, twig and all, skinned the apples into his bucket and contemptuously dropped the twig on the ground.
The voice of the checker called, “Careful of those trees, over there.”
The old man grinned maliciously, showing two upper and two lower yellow teeth, long and sloped outward, like a gopher’s teeth. “Busy bastard, ain’t he,” he remarked to Jim.
“College boy,” said Jim. “Every place you go you run into ’em.”
The old man squatted down on his limb. “And what do they know?” he demanded. “They go to them colleges, and they don’t learn a God damn thing. That smart guy with the little book couldn’t keep his ass dry in a barn.” He spat again.
“They get pretty smart, all right,” Jim agreed.
“Now you and me,” the old man went on, “We know—not much, maybe, but what we know we know good.”
Jim was silent for a moment, and then he lanced at the old man’s pride as he had heard Mac do to other men. “You don’t know enough to keep out of a tree when you’re seventy. I don’t know enough to wear white cords and make pencil marks in a little book.”
The old man snarled, “We got no pull, that’s what. You got to have pull to get an easy job. We just get rode over because we got no pull.”
“Well, what you going to do about it?”
The question seemed to let air out of the old man. His anger disappeared. His eyes grew puzzled and a little frightened. “Christ only knows,” he said. “We just take it, that’s all. We move about the country like a bunch of hogs and get beat on the ass by a college boy.”
“It’s not his fault,” said Jim. “He’s just got a job. If he’s going to keep the job, he’s got to do it.”
The old man reached for another cluster of apples, picked them with little twisting lifts and put each one carefully into his bucket. “When I was a young man, I used to think somethin’ could be done,” he said,” but I’m seventy-one.” His voice was tired.
A truck went by, carrying off the filled boxes. The oldman continued, “I was in the north woods when the Wobblies was raising hell. I’m a top-faller, a damn good one. Maybe you noticed how I take to a tree at my age. Well, I had hopes then. ’Course the Wobblies done some good, used to be there was no crappers but a hole in the ground, and no place to take a bath. The meat used to spoil. Well, them Wobblies made ’em put in toilets and showers; but, hell, it all went to pieces.” His hand went up automatically for more apples. “I joined unions,”
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