It was getting dark, and still no call to stop work. If I had known only two words of Slavic it would have been a relief. But I did not. So I did the next best thing. I expressed my feelings by throwing my basket as far as I could send it across the field and started toward the house. The Hun looked amazed. As I drew near, far up in the house somewhere, to the accompaniment of a tinkling piano, one of the old farmer's daughters was singing in a voice absolutely devoid of tune, "I want to go to Heaven right away." I hoped she would. Just then the son rode up on his spinning wheel and asked, "What did you quit for?" I replied, "I came up for a lantern." He then called the Hun. Our _carte du jour_ for supper was a duplicate of the dinner, only it was stone cold. We plebs slept in an oppressive attic room. We were called at three A. M. to get up and go to milking. Not being a regular man, I supposed I was not included in the call, although I noticed the Hun responded. After my fellow-workers left I turned over for a much-needed, final rest, but just as I was dozing into sleep I heard the old farmer puffing up the stairs. "Hey, you fellow," he called, "get up there and get out and help those fellers milk." "All right," I responded. I did get up and out, but it was to the woodshed where my bundle lay, and while I was putting it together the old man passed hurriedly by the window again, headed for the garret stairs with the look of Cain on his face, to see why I still lingered. I heard the heavy tread on the stairs, as I was passing out across the lawn toward the nearest town. Yes, there was one dollar due me, but I sent word back to one of these, my proletaire brothers, that he could have it, and I suggested that it might be well spent toward buying a talking machine to be used while they dined at that bountiful, hilarious table, at the pickle farm. CHAPTER XXI NEW YORK STATE--THE OPEN FIELDS "_Every man has something to sell if it is only his arms, and so has that property to dispose of._"--EMERSON. Pickle picking had not proved profitable. Continuing my search I found that factory work was out of the question. At all the factories where I had applied the reply had been, invariably, "We have a hundred applicants for every vacancy." In one, it is true, I might have had work had I been a skillful hatter. But I wasn't. So I resolved to follow out my original intention of trying the fruit farms which lay on the west side of the river, beginning at Balmville, some thirty miles up the stream.