And I found myself questioning why this man and his mate, hard workers I knew from their talk, should have to seek a pauper lodging.He had pride, pride in his old woman and pride in himself.
When I asked him what he thought I, a greenhorn, might expect to earn at 'hopping,' he sized me up, and said that it all depended.
Plenty of people were too slow to pick hops and made a failure of it.A man, to succeed, must use his head and be quick with his fingers, must be exceeding quick with his fingers.Now he and his old woman could do very well at it, working the one bin between them and not going to sleep over it; but then, they had been at it for years.
'I 'ad a mate as went down last year,' spoke up a man.'It was 'is fust time, but 'e come back wi' two poun' ten in 'is pockit, an' 'e was only gone a month.'
'There you are,' said the Hopper, a wealth of admiration in his voice.'E was quick.'E was jest nat'rally born to it, 'e was.'
Two pound ten- twelve dollars and a half- for a month's work when one is 'jest nat'rally born to it'! And in addition, sleeping out without blankets and living the Lord knows how.There are moments when I am thankful that I was not 'jest nat'rally born' a genius for anything, not even hop-picking.
In the matter of getting an outfit for 'the hops,' the Hopper gave me some sterling advice, to which same give heed, you soft and tender people, in case you should ever be stranded in London Town.