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.
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