It is forty miles from Oakland to San Jose, and Saxon and Billy accomplished it in three easy days. No more obliging and angrily garrulous linemen were encountered, and few were the opportunities for conversation with chance wayfarers. Numbers of tramps, carrying rolls of blankets, were met, traveling both north and south on the county road; and from talks with them Saxon quickly learned that they knew little or nothing about farming. They were mostly old men, feeble or besotted, and all they knew was work--where jobs might be good, where jobs had been good; but the places they mentioned were always a long way off.
One thing she did glean from them, and that was that the district she and Billy were passing through was "small-farmer" country in which labor was rarely hired, and that when it was it generally was Portuguese.
The farmers themselves were unfriendly. They drove by Billy and Saxon, often with empty wagons, but never invited them to ride.
When chance offered and Saxon did ask questions, they looked her over curiously, or suspiciously, and gave ambiguous and facetious answers.
"They ain't Americans, damn them," Billy fretted. "Why, in the old days everybody was friendly to everybody."
But Saxon remembered her last talk with her brother.
"It's the spirit of the times, Billy. The spirit has changed.
Besides, these people are too near. Wait till we get farther away from the cities, then we'll find them more friendly."
"A measly lot these ones are," he sneered.
"Maybe they've a right to be," she laughed. "For all you know, more than one of the scabs you've slugged were sons of theirs."
"If I could only hope so," Billy said fervently. "But I don't care if I owned ten thousand acres, any man hikin' with his blankets might be just as good a man as me, an' maybe better, for all I'd know. I'd give 'm the benefit of the doubt, anyway."
Billy asked for work, at first, indiscriminately, later, only at the larger farms. The unvarying reply was that there was no work.
A few said there would be plowing after the first rains. Here and there, in a small way, dry plowing was going on. But in the main the farmers were waiting.
"But do you know how to plow?" Saxon asked Billy.
"No; but I guess it ain't much of a trick to turn. Besides, next man I see plowing I'm goin' to get a lesson from."
In the mid-afternoon of the second day his opportunity came. He climbed on top of the fence of a small field and watched an old man plow round and round it.
"Aw, shucks, just as easy as easy," Billy commented scornfully.
"If an old codger like that can handle one plow, I can handle two."
"Go on and try it," Saxon urged.
"What's the good?"
"Cold feet," she jeered, but with a smiling face. "All you have to do is ask him. All he can do is say no. And what if he does?
You faced the Chicago Terror twenty rounds without flinching."
"Aw, but it's different," he demurred, then dropped to the ground inside the fence. "Two to one the old geezer turns me down."
"No, he won't. Just tell him you want to learn, and ask him if he'll let you drive around a few times. Tell him it won't cost him anything."
"Huh! If he gets chesty I'll take his blamed plow away from him."
From the top of the fence, but too far away to hear, Saxon watched the colloquy. After several minutes, the lines were transferred to Billy's neck, the handles to his hands. Then the team started, and the old man, delivering a rapid fire of instructions, walked alongside of Billy. When a few turns had been made, the farmer crossed the plowed strip to Saxon, and joined her on the rail.
"He's plowed before, a little mite, ain't he?"
Saxon shook her head.
"Never in his life. But he knows how to drive horses."
"He showed he wasn't all greenhorn, an' he learns pretty quick."
Here the farmer chuckled and cut himself a chew from a plug of tobacco. "I reckon he won't tire me out a-settin' here."
The unplowed area grew smaller and smaller, but Billy evinced no intention of quitting, and his audience on the fence was deep in conversation. Saxon's questions flew fast and furious, and she was not long in concluding that the old man bore a striking resemblance to the description the lineman had given of his father.
Billy persisted till the field was finished, and the old man invited him and Saxon to stop for the night. There was a disused outbuilding where they would find a small cook stove, he said, and also he would give them fresh milk. Further, if Saxon wanted to test HER desire for farming, she could try her hand on the cow.
The milking lesson did not prove as successful as Billy's plowing; but when he had mocked sufficiently, Saxon challenged him to try, and he failed as grievously as she. Saxon had eyes and questions for everything, and it did not take her long to realize that she was looking upon the other side of the farming shield. Farm and farmer were old-fashioned. There was no intensive cultivation. There was too much land too little farmed.
Everything was slipshod. House and barn and outbuildings were fast falling into ruin. The front yard was weed-grown. There was no vegetable garden. The small orchard was old, sickly, and neglected. The trees were twisted, spindling, and overgrown with a gray moss. The sons and daughters were away in the cities, Saxon found out. One daughter had married a doctor, the other was a teacher in the state normal school; one son was a locomotive engineer, the second was an architect, and the third was a police court reporter in San Francisco. On occasion, the father said, they helped out the old folks.
"What do you think?" Saxon asked Billy as he smoked his after-supper cigarette.
His shoulders went up in a comprehensive shrug.
"Huh! That's easy. The old geezer's like his orchard--covered with moss. It's plain as the nose on your face, after San Leandro, that he don't know the first thing. An' them horses.
