The trucks were rotten. One night we finished at 11 p.m.,
after a hard day's work, three of us unloaded 300 quebracho posts in
under three hours. I had a French gardener in my room who did nothing
else but spit and talk politics.
The Boss took me to learn shearing. I had to shear, gather the wool,
sort it and pack it up. Each man got five cents a sheep, but it was hard
work, all done by hand.
Then I cut alfalfa for a fortnight--a nice easy job.
A Catholic priest came to stay for eight days--Mass every day at 7 a.m.
and 8 p.m., sometimes three a day. No work at all. Everyone had to
go--the book-keeper did not, so he got the sack. I, as a Protestant,
went to the sermons, which were very good. It was wonderful; these rough
campmen went away quite tamed for a time. The last night the Boss got
married at half-past twelve at night to a native lady. Another time,
while we were at Mass, someone came to say the gardener was dying--we
raced down, the priest in front ready to hear his confession, but when
we got there the gardener was calmly smoking his pipe, greatly
surprised.
An inspector of locusts stopped all the summer. He did nothing but eat,
sleep, and drink whisky. We had locust-killing machines of every
description, but we did not kill ten kilos.
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