"I suppose Jammery was originally Jean-Marie."
He shrugged again. "No idea," he said. "It's my first, last, and middle name. The only one I've got."
Derek looked him over curiously, wondering what wild and picturesque past had gone to the making of this handsome, unscrupulous-looking little fellow. "Well," he said, "if you need anything let me know. I want you to be as comfortable as possible."
"Thank you," said Jammery. "Lots of the fruit-growers don't care how we live so long as they get plenty of work out of us. They don't treat us as well as their animals."
A new life and activity took possession of Grimstone. It seemed to Vale that in whatever direction he looked he saw one of the dark tribe of pickers. The men and older women set stolidly to work in the strawberry beds; the two young boys ran continually from the barn to the shack carrying armfuls of straw or tin pails of water; when he went to the kitchen the round faces of two twelve-year-old girls were pressed against the screen door. "Phœbe," one of them was calling, "kin we git a point of milk?" Seeing Vale she smiled broadly.
"What is your name, youngster?" he asked.
"Beulah. This here's my niece, my oldest sister's girl. Ain't she white?" This with candid pride. "The Government gent he wouldn't give her no allowance last time—she was so white."
The girl's skin was indeed white, but she preserved a stoical Indian calm while being discussed. Laughing-eyed Beulah chattered on: "Will you come and see our gorden? It's terr'ble pretty. We'll git the point of milk when we come back. The gorden's on the shore, won't you come? Gosh! you've got pretty hair."
