Chapter 18: Sorry Five

On Saturday the Brownie farm sold tomatoes from eight to one.

Daniel had never seen so many people in a yard.

There were forty at least, with baskets.

It was six days since the barn.

Johnny had said everyone, and Saturday was the only day everyone came.

The stand was a pair of trestles under a canvas awning.

It had chalk prices on a slate and a cash tin that nobody guarded.

Donna Brownie stood behind it in her straw hat and took money without counting.

Johnny stood at the end, weighing, with his sleeves up and his eyes on the scale.

He had not looked at Daniel since the barn.

Daniel had been up since four.

He had washed himself, in cold water, with a flannel, and he had not counted one step.

He had put on one of Johnny's clean shirts.

His mother had pressed it with a flat iron she found in the pantry.

His family had come out to watch from the porch, in a row, with coffee, in order of age.

At half past nine, when the crowd was thickest, he rolled the chair across the yard to the stand.

A woman with a basket of beets turned and said, "Oh, you're the husband."

"I am."

"The one who fell in the carrots."

"Yes."

"I heard you cooked a stew." She looked him up and down. "Was it any good?"

"It was salty," Daniel said. "I'd like to say something."

The woman stepped back.

The chair stopped at the end of the trestle, and he put both hands on the table's edge.

It was a plank, and rough, and it had a smear of tomato on it.

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