t looks as though they'd crowd our kind out," Saxon adjudged.

"Some tall crowdin', I guess," Billy grumbled. "It looks like the
free-born American ain't got no room left in his own land."

"Then it's his own fault," Saxon said, with vague asperity, resenting
conditions she was just beginning to grasp.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I reckon the American could do what the
Porchugeeze do if he wanted to. Only he don't want to, thank God. He
ain't much given to livin' like a pig often leavin's."

"Not in the country, maybe," Saxon controverted. "But I've seen an awful
lot of Americans living like pigs in the cities."

Billy grunted unwilling assent. "I guess they quit the farms an' go to
the city for something better, an' get it in the neck."

"Look at all the children!" Saxon cried. "School's letting out. And
nearly all are Portuguese, Billy, NOT Porchugeeze. Mercedes taught me
the right way."

"They never wore glad rags like them in the old country," Billy sneered.
"They had to come over here to get decent clothes and decent grub.
They're as fat as butterballs."

Saxon nodded affirmation, and a great light seemed suddenly to kindle in
her understanding.

"That's the very point, Billy. They're doing it--doing it farming, too.
Strikes don't bother THEM."

"You don't call that dinky gardening farming," he objected, pointing to
a piece of land barely the size of an acre, which they were passing.

"Oh, your ideas are still big," she laughed. "You're like Uncle Will,
who owned thousands of acres and wanted to own a million, and who wound
up as night watchman. That's what was the trouble with all us Americans.
Everything large scale. Anything less than one hundred and sixty acres
was small scale."

"Just the same," Billy held stubbornly, "large scale's a whole lot
better'n small scale like all these dinky gardens."

Saxon sighed. "I don't know which is the dinkier," she observed finally,
"--owning a few little acres and the team you're driving, or not owning
any acres and driving a team somebody else owns for wages."

Billy winced.

"Go on, Robinson Crusoe," he growled good naturedly. "Rub it in good
an' plenty. An' the worst of it is it's correct. A hell of a free-born
American I've been, adrivin' other folkses' teams for a livin',
a-strikin' and a-sluggin' scabs, an' not bein' able to keep up with the
installments for a few sticks of furniture. Just the same I was sorry
for one thing. I hated worse in Sam H