1The family, on top of the load, the children and Connie and Rose of Sharon and the preacher were stiff and cramped. They had sat in the heat in front of the coroner’s office in Bakersfield while Pa and Ma and Uncle John went in. Then a basket was brought out and the long bundle lifted down from the truck. And they sat in the sun while the examination went on, while the cause of death was found and the certificate signed.

2Al and Tom strolled along the street and looked in store windows and watched the strange people on the sidewalks.

3And at last Pa and Ma and Uncle John came out, and they were subdued and quiet. Uncle John climbed up on the load. Pa and Ma got in the seat. Tom and Al strolled back and Tom got under the steering wheel. He sat there silently, waiting for some instruction. Pa looked straight ahead, his dark hat pulled low. Ma rubbed the sides of her mouth with her fingers, and her eyes were far away and lost, dead with weariness.

4Pa sighed deeply. “They wasn’t nothin’ else to do,” he said.

5“I know,” said Ma. “She would a liked a nice funeral, though. She always wanted one.”

6Tom looked sideways at them. “County?” he asked.

7“Yeah,” Pa shook his head quickly, as though to get back to some reality. “We didn’ have enough. We couldn’ of done it.” He turned to Ma. “You ain’t to feel bad. We couldn’ no matter how hard we tried, no matter what we done. We jus’ didn’ have it; embalming, an’ a coffin an’ a preacher, an’ a plot in a graveyard. It would of took ten times what we got. We done the bes’ we could.”

8“I know,” Ma said. “I jus’ can’t get it outa my head what store she set by a nice funeral. Got to forget it.” She sighed deeply and rubbed the side of her mouth. “That was a purty nice fella in there. Awful bossy, but he was purty nice.”

9“Yeah,” Pa said. “He give us the straight talk, awright.”

10Ma brushed her hair back with her hand. Her jaw tightened. “We got to git,” she said. “We got to find a place to stay. We got to get work an’ settle down. No use a-lettin’ the little fellas go hungry. That wasn’t never Granma’s way. She always et a good meal at a funeral.”

11“Where we goin’?” Tom asked.

12Pa raised his hat and scratched among his hair. “Camp,” he said. “We ain’t gonna spen’ what little’s lef’ till we get work. Drive out in the country.”

13Tom started the car and they rolled through the streets and out toward the country. And by a bridge they saw a collection of tents and shacks. Tom said, “Might’s well stop here. Find out what’s doin’, an’ where at the work is.” He drove down a steep dirt incline and parked on the edge of the encampment.

14There was no order in the camp; little gray tents, shacks, cars were scattered about at random. The first house was nondescript. The south wall was made of three sheets of rusty corrugated iron, the east wall a square of moldy carpet tacked between two boards, the north wall a strip of roofing paper and a strip of tattered canvas, and the west wall six pieces of gunny sacking. Over the square frame, on untrimmed willow limbs, grass had been piled, not thatched, but heaped up in a low mound. The entrance, on the gunny-sack side, was cluttered with equipment. A five-gallon kerosene can served for a stove. It was laid on its side, with a section of rusty stovepipe thrust in one end. A wash boiler rested on its side against the wall; and a collection of boxes lay about, boxes to sit on, to eat on. A Model T Ford sedan and a two-wheel trailer were parked beside the shack, and about the camp there hung a slovenly despair.

15Next to the shack there was a little tent, gray with weathering, but neatly, properly set up; and the boxes in front of it were placed against the tent wall. A stovepipe stuck out of the door flap, and the dirt in front of the tent had been swept and sprinkled. A bucketful of soaking clothes stood on a box. The camp was neat and sturdy. A Model A roadster and a little home-made bed trailer stood beside the tent.

16And next there was a huge tent, ragged, torn in strips and the tears mended with pieces of wire. The flaps were up, and inside four wide mattresses lay on the ground. A clothes line strung along the side bore pink cotton dresses and several pairs of overalls. There were forty tents and shacks, and beside each habitation some kind of automobile. Far down the line a few children stood and stared at the newly arrived truck, and they moved toward it, little boys in overalls and bare feet, their hair gray with dust.

17Tom stopped the truck and looked at Pa. “She ain’t very purty,” he said. “Want to go somewheres else?”

18“Can’t go nowheres else till we know where we’re at,” Pa said. “We got to ast about work.”

19Tom opened the door and stepped out. The family climbed down from the load and looked curiously at the camp. Ruthie and Winfield, from the habit of the road, took down the bucket and walked toward the willows, where there would be water; and the line of children parted for them and closed after them.

20The flaps of the first shack parted and a woman looked out. Her gray hair was braided, and she wore a dirty, flowered Mother Hubbard. Her face was wizened and dull, deep gray pouches under blank eyes, and a mouth slack and loose.

21Pa said, “Can we jus’ pull up anywheres an’ camp?”

22The head was withdrawn inside the shack. For a moment there was quiet and then the flaps were pushed aside and a bearded man in shirt sleeves stepped out. The woman looked out after him, but she did not come into the open.

23The bearded man said, “Howdy, folks,” and his restless dark eyes jumped to each member of the family, and from them to the truck to the equipment.

24Pa said, “I jus’ ast your woman if it’s all right to set our stuff anywheres.”

25The bearded man looked at Pa intently, as though he had said something very wise that needed thought. “Set down anywheres, here in this place?” he asked.

26“Sure. Anybody own this place, that we got to see ’fore we can camp?”

27The bearded man squinted one eye nearly closed and studied Pa. “You wanta camp here?”

28Pa’s irritation arose. The gray woman peered out of the burlap shack. “What you think I’m a-sayin’?” Pa said.

29“Well, if you wanta camp here, why don’t ya? I ain’t a-stoppin’ you.”

30Tom laughed. “He got it.”

31Pa gathered his temper. “I jus’ wanted to know does anybody own it? Do we got to pay?”

32The bearded man thrust out his jaw. “Who owns it?” he demanded.

33Pa turned away. “The hell with it,” he said. The woman’s head popped back in the tent.

34The bearded man stepped forward menacingly. “Who owns it?” he demanded. “Who’s gonna kick us outa here? You tell me.”

35Tom stepped in front of Pa. “You better go take a good long sleep,” he said. The bearded man dropped his mouth open and put a dirty finger against his lower gums. For a moment he continued to look wisely, speculatively at Tom, and then he turned on his heel and popped into the shack after the gray woman.

36Tom turned on Pa. “What the hell was that?” he asked.

37Pa shrugged his shoulders. He was looking across the camp. In front of a tent stood an old Buick, and the head was off. A young man was grinding the valves, and as he twisted back and forth, back and forth, on the tool, he looked up at the Joad truck. They could see that he was laughing to himself. When the bearded man had gone, the young man left his work and sauntered over.

38“H’are ya?” he said, and his blue eyes were shiny with amusement. “I seen you just met the Mayor.”

39“What the hell’s the matter with ’im?” Tom demanded.

40The young man chuckled. “He’s jus’ nuts like you an’ me. Maybe he’s a little nutser’n me, I don’ know.”

41Pa said, “I jus’ ast him if we could camp here.”

42The young man wiped his greasy hands on his trousers. “Sure. Why not? You folks jus’ come acrost?”

43“Yeah,” said Tom. “Jus’ got in this mornin’.”

44“Never been in Hooverville before?”

45“Where’s Hooverville?”

46“This here’s her.”

47“Oh!” said Tom. “We jus’ got in.”

48Winfield and Ruthie came back, carrying a bucket of water between them.

49Ma said, “Le’s get the camp up. I’m tuckered out. Maybe we can all rest.” Pa and Uncle John climbed up on the truck to unload the canvas and the beds.

50Tom sauntered to the young man, and walked beside him back to the car he had been working on. The valve-grinding brace lay on the exposed block, and a little yellow can of valve-grinding compound was wedged on top of the vacuum tank. Tom asked, “What the hell was the matter’th that ol’ fella with the beard?”

51The young man picked up his brace and went to work, twisting back and forth, grinding valve against valve seat. “The Mayor? Chris’ knows. I guess maybe he’s bull-simple.”

52“What’s ‘bull-simple’?”

53“I guess cops push ’im aroun’ so much he’s still spinning.”

54Tom asked, “Why would they push a fella like that aroun’?”

55The young man stopped his work and looked in Tom’s eyes. “Chris’ knows,” he said. “You jus’ come. Maybe you can figger her out. Some fellas says one thing, an’ some says another thing. But you jus’ camp in one place a little while, an’ you see how quick a deputy sheriff shoves you along.” He lifted a valve and smeared compound on the seat.

56“But what the hell for?”

57“I tell ya I don’ know. Some says they don’ want us to vote; keep us movin’ so we can’t vote. An’ some says so we can’t get on relief. An’ some says if we set in one place we’d get organized. I don’ know why. I on’y know we get rode all the time. You wait, you’ll see.”

58“We ain’t no bums,” Tom insisted. “We’re lookin’ for work. We’ll take any kind a work.”

59The young man paused in fitting the brace to the valve slot. He looked in amazement at Tom. “Lookin’ for work?” he said. “So you’re lookin’ for work. What ya think ever’body else is lookin’ for? Di’monds? What you think I wore my ass down to a nub lookin’ for?” He twisted the brace back and forth.

60Tom looked about at the grimy tents, the junk equipment, at the old cars, the lumpy mattresses out in the sun, at the blackened cans on fire-blackened holes where the people cooked. He asked quietly, “Ain’t they no work?”

61“I don’ know. Mus’ be. Ain’t no crop right here now. Grapes to pick later, an’ cotton to pick later. We’re a-movin’ on, soon’s I get these here valves groun’. Me an’ my wife an’ my kids. We heard they was work up north. We’re shovin’ north, up aroun’ Salinas.”

62Tom saw Uncle John and Pa and the preacher hoisting the tarpaulin on the tent poles and Ma on her knees inside, brushing off the mattresses on the ground. A circle of quiet children stood to watch the new family get settled, quiet children with bare feet and dirty faces. Tom said, “Back home some fellas come through with han’bills—orange ones. Says they need lots a people out here to work the crops.”

63The young man laughed. “They say they’s three hunderd thousan’ us folks here, an’ I bet ever’ dam’ fam’ly seen them han’bills.”

64“Yeah, but if they don’ need folks, what’d they go to the trouble puttin’ them things out for?”

65“Use your head, why don’cha?”

66“Yeah, but I wanta know.”

67“Look,” the young man said. “S’pose you got a job a work, an’ there’s jus’ one fella wants the job. You got to pay ’im what he asts. But s’pose they’s a hunderd men.” He put down his tool. His eyes hardened and his voice sharpened. “S’pose they’s a hunderd men wants that job. S’pose them men got kids, an’ them kids is hungry. S’pose a lousy dime’ll buy a box a mush for them kids. S’pose a nickel’ll buy at leas’ somepin for them kids. An’ you got a hunderd men. Jus’ offer ’em a nickel—why, they’ll kill each other fightin’ for that nickel. Know what they was payin’, las’ job I had? Fifteen cents an hour. Ten hours for a dollar an’ a half, an’ ya can’t stay on the place. Got to burn gasoline gettin’ there.” He was panting with anger, and his eyes blazed with hate. “That’s why them han’bills was out. You can print a hell of a lot of han’bills with what ya save payin’ fifteen cents an hour for fiel’ work.”

68Tom said, “That’s stinkin’.”

69The young man laughed harshly. “You stay out here a little while, an’ if you smell any roses, you come let me smell, too.”

70“But they is work,” Tom insisted. “Christ Almighty, with all this stuff a-growin’: orchards, grapes, vegetables—I seen it. They got to have men. I seen all that stuff.”

71A child cried in the tent beside the car. The young man went into the tent and his voice came softly through the canvas. Tom picked up the brace, fitted it in the slot of the valve, and ground away, his hand whipping back and forth. The child’s crying stopped. The young man came out and watched Tom. “You can do her,” he said. “Damn good thing. You’ll need to.”

72“How ’bout what I said?” Tom resumed. “I seen all the stuff growin’.”

73The young man squatted on his heels. “I’ll tell ya,” he said quietly. “They’s a big son-of-a-bitch of a peach orchard I worked in. Takes nine men all the year roun’.” He paused impressively. “Takes three thousan’ men for two weeks when them peaches is ripe. Got to have ’em or them peaches’ll rot. So what do they do? They send out han’bills all over hell. They need three thousan’, an’ they get six thousan’. They get them men for what they wanta pay. If ya don’ wanta take what they pay, goddamn it, they’s a thousan’ men waitin’ for your job. So ya pick, an’ ya pick, an’ then she’s done. Whole part a the country’s peaches. All ripe together. When ya get ’em picked, ever’ goddamn one is picked. There ain’t another damn thing in that part a the country to do. An’ then them owners don’ want you there no more. Three thousan’ of you. The work’s done. You might steal, you might get drunk, you might jus’ raise hell. An’ besides, you don’ look nice, livin’ in ol’ tents; an’ it’s a pretty country, but you stink it up. They don’ want you aroun’. So they kick you out, they move you along. That’s how it is.”

74Tom, looking down toward the Joad tent, saw his mother, heavy and slow with weariness, build a little trash fire and put the cooking pots over the flame. The circle of children drew closer, and the calm wide eyes of the children watched every move of Ma’s hands. An old, old man with a bent back came like a badger out of a tent and snooped near, sniffing the air as he came. He laced his arms behind him and joined the children to watch Ma. Ruthie and Winfield stood near to Ma and eyed the strangers belligerently.

75Tom said angrily, “Them peaches got to be picked right now, don’t they? Jus’ when they’re ripe?”

76“ ’Course they do.”

77“Well, s’pose them people got together an’ says, ‘Let ’em rot.’ Wouldn’ be long ’fore the price went up, by God!”

78The young man looked up from the valves, looked sardonically at Tom. “Well, you figgered out somepin, didn’ you. Come right outa your own head.”

79“I’m tar’d,” said Tom. “Drove all night. I don’t wanta start no argument. An’ I’m so goddamn tar’d I’d argue easy. Don’ be smart with me. I’m askin’ you.”

80The young man grinned. “I didn’ mean it. You ain’t been here. Folks figgered that out. An’ the folks with the peach orchard figgered her out too. Look, if the folks gets together, they’s a leader—got to be—fella that does the talkin’. Well, first time this fella opens his mouth they grab ’im an’ stick ’im in jail. An’ if they’s another leader pops up, why, they stick ’im in jail.”

81Tom said, “Well, a fella eats in jail anyways.”

82“His kids don’t. How’d you like to be in an’ your kids starvin’ to death?”

83“Yeah,” said Tom slowly. “Yeah.”

84“An’ here’s another thing. Ever hear a’ the blacklist?”

85“What’s that?”

86“Well, you jus’ open your trap about us folks gettin’ together, an’ you’ll see. They take your pitcher an’ send it all over. Then you can’t get work nowhere. An’ if you got kids——”

87Tom took off his cap and twisted it in his hands. “So we take what we can get, huh, or we starve; an’ if we yelp we starve.”

88The young man made a sweeping circle with his hand, and his hand took in the ragged tents and the rusty cars.

89Tom looked down at his mother again, where she sat scraping potatoes. And the children had drawn closer. He said, “I ain’t gonna take it. Goddamn it, I an’ my folks ain’t no sheep. I’ll kick the hell outa somebody.”

90“Like a cop?”

91“Like anybody.”

92“You’re nuts,” said the young man. “They’ll pick you right off. You got no name, no property. They’ll find you in a ditch, with the blood dried on your mouth an’ your nose. Be one little line in the paper—know what it’ll say? ‘Vagrant foun’ dead.’ An’ that’s all. You’ll see a lot of them little lines, ‘Vagrant foun’ dead.’ ”

93Tom said, “They’ll be somebody else foun’ dead right ’longside of this here vagrant.”

94“You’re nuts,” said the young man. “Won’t be no good in that.”

95“Well, what you doin’ about it?” He looked into the grease-streaked face. And a veil drew down over the eyes of the young man.

96“Nothin’. Where you from?”

97“Us? Right near Sallisaw, Oklahoma.”

98“Jus’ get in?”

99“Jus’ today.”

100“Gonna be aroun’ here long?”

101“Don’t know. We’ll stay wherever we can get work. Why?”

102“Nothin’.” And the veil came down again.

103“Got to sleep up,” said Tom. “Tomorra we’ll go out lookin’ for work.”

104“You kin try.”

105Tom turned away and moved toward the Joad tent.

106The young man took up the can of valve compound and dug his finger into it. “Hi!” he called.

107Tom turned. “What you want?”

108“I want ta tell ya.” He motioned with his finger, on which a blob of compound stuck. “I jus’ want ta tell ya. Don’ go lookin’ for no trouble. ’Member how that bull-simple guy looked?”

109“Fella in the tent up there?”

110“Yeah—looked dumb—no sense?”

111“What about him?”

112“Well, when the cops come in, an’ they come in all a time, that’s how you want ta be. Dumb—don’t know nothin’. Don’t understan’ nothin’. That’s how the cops like us. Don’t hit no cops. That’s jus’ suicide. Be bull-simple.”

113“Let them goddamn cops run over me, an’ me do nothin’?”

114“No, looka here. I’ll come for ya tonight. Maybe I’m wrong. There’s stools aroun’ all a time. I’m takin’ a chancet, an’ I got a kid, too. But I’ll come for ya. An’ if ya see a cop, why, you’re a goddamn dumb Okie, see?”

115“Tha’s awright if we’re doin’ anythin’,” said Tom.

116“Don’ you worry. We’re doin’ somepin, on’y we ain’t stickin’ our necks out. A kid starves quick. Two-three days for a kid.” He went back to his job, spread the compound on a valve seat, and his hand jerked rapidly back and forth on the brace, and his face was dull and dumb.

117Tom strolled slowly back to his camp. “Bull-simple,” he said under his breath.

118Pa and Uncle John came toward the camp, their arms loaded with dry willow sticks, and they threw them down by the fire and squatted on their hams. “Got her picked over pretty good,” said Pa. “Had ta go a long ways for wood.” He looked up at the circle of staring children. “Lord God Almighty!” he said. “Where’d you come from?” All of the children looked self-consciously at their feet.

119“Guess they smelled the cookin’,” said Ma. “Winfiel’, get out from under foot.” She pushed him out of her way. “Got ta make us up a little stew,” she said. “We ain’t et nothin’ cooked right sence we come from home. Pa, you go up to the store there an’ get me some neck meat. Make a nice stew here.” Pa stood up and sauntered away.

120Al had the hood of the car up, and he looked down at the greasy engine. He looked up when Tom approached. “You sure look happy as a buzzard,” Al said.

121“I’m jus’ gay as a toad in spring rain,” said Tom.

122“Looka the engine,” Al pointed. “Purty good, huh?”

123Tom peered in. “Looks awright to me.”

124“Awright? Jesus, she’s wonderful. She ain’t shot no oil nor nothin’.” He unscrewed a spark plug and stuck his forefinger in the hole. “Crusted up some, but she’s dry.”

125Tom said, “You done a nice job a pickin’. That what ya want me to say?”

126“Well, I sure was scairt the whole way, figgerin’ she’d bust down an’ it’d be my fault.”

127“No, you done good. Better get her in shape, ’cause tomorra we’re goin’ out lookin’ for work.”

128“She’ll roll,” said Al. “Don’t you worry none about that.” He took out a pocket knife and scraped the points of the spark plug.

129Tom walked around the side of the tent, and he found Casy sitting on the earth, wisely regarding one bare foot. Tom sat down heavily beside him. “Think she’s gonna work?”

130“What?” asked Casy.

131“Them toes of yourn.”

132“Oh! Jus’ settin’ here a-thinkin’.”

133“You always get good an’ comf’table for it,” said Tom.

134Casy waggled his big toe up and his second toe down, and he smiled quietly. “Hard enough for a fella to think ’thout kinkin’ hisself up to do it.”

135“Ain’t heard a peep outa you for days,” said Tom. “Thinkin’ all the time?”

136“Yeah, thinkin’ all the time.”

137Tom took off his cloth cap, dirty now, and ruinous, the visor pointed as a bird’s beak. He turned the sweat band out and removed a long strip of folded newspaper. “Sweat so much she’s shrank,” he said. He looked at Casy’s waving toes. “Could ya come down from your thinkin’ an’ listen a minute?”

138Casy turned his head on the stalk-like neck. “Listen all the time. That’s why I been thinkin’. Listen to people a-talkin’, an’ purty soon I hear the way folks are feelin’. Goin’ on all the time. I hear ’em an’ feel ’em; an’ they’re beating their wings like a bird in a attic. Gonna bust their wings on a dusty winda tryin’ ta get out.”

139Tom regarded him with widened eyes, and then he turned and looked at a gray tent twenty feet away. Washed jeans and shirts and a dress hung to dry on the tent guys. He said softly, “That was about what I was gonna tell ya. An’ you seen awready.”

140“I seen,” Casy agreed. “They’s a army of us without no harness.” He bowed his head and ran his extended hand slowly up his forehead and into his hair. “All along I seen it,” he said. “Ever’ place we stopped I seen it. Folks hungry for side-meat, an’ when they get it, they ain’t fed. An’ when they’d get so hungry they couldn’ stan’ it no more, why, they’d ast me to pray for ’em, an’ sometimes I done it.” He clasped his hands around drawn-up knees and pulled his legs in. “I use ta think that’d cut ’er,” he said. “Use ta rip off a prayer an’ all the troubles’d stick to that prayer like flies on flypaper, an’ the prayer’d go a-sailin’ off, a-takin’ them troubles along. But it don’ work no more.”

141Tom said, “Prayer never brought in no side-meat. Takes a shoat to bring in pork.”

142“Yeah,” Casy said. “An’ Almighty God never raised no wages. These here folks want to live decent and bring up their kids decent. An’ when they’re old they wanta set in the door an’ watch the downing sun. An’ when they’re young they wanta dance an’ sing an’ lay together. They wanta eat an’ get drunk and work. An’ that’s it—they wanta jus’ fling their goddamn muscles aroun’ an’ get tired. Christ! What’m I talkin’ about?”

143“I dunno,” said Tom. “Sounds kinda nice. When ya think you can get ta work an’ quit thinkin’ a spell? We got to get work. Money’s ’bout gone. Pa give five dollars to get a painted piece of board stuck up over Granma. We ain’t got much lef’.”

144A lean brown mongrel dog came sniffing around the side of the tent. He was nervous and flexed to run. He sniffed close before he was aware of the two men, and then looking up he saw them, leaped sideways, and fled, ears back, bony tail clamped protectively. Casy watched him go, dodging around a tent to get out of sight. Casy sighed. “I ain’t doin’ nobody no good,” he said. “Me or nobody else. I was thinkin’ I’d go off alone by myself. I’m a-eatin’ your food an’ a-takin’ up room. An’ I ain’t give you nothin’. Maybe I could get a steady job an’ maybe pay back some a the stuff you’ve give me.”

145Tom opened his mouth and thrust his lower jaw forward, and he tapped his lower teeth with a dried piece of mustard stalk. His eyes stared over the camp, over the gray tents and the shacks of weed and tin and paper. “Wisht I had a sack a Durham,” he said. “I ain’t had a smoke in a hell of a time. Use ta get tobacco in McAlester. Almost wisht I was back.” He tapped his teeth again and suddenly he turned on the preacher. “Ever been in a jail house?”

146“No,” said Casy. “Never been.”

147“Don’t go away right yet,” said Tom. “Not right yet.”

148“Quicker I get lookin’ for work—quicker I’m gonna find some.”

149Tom studied him with half-shut eyes and he put on his cap again. “Look,” he said, “this ain’t no lan’ of milk an’ honey like the preachers say. They’s a mean thing here. The folks here is scared of us people comin’ west; an’ so they got cops out tryin’ to scare us back.”

150“Yeah,” said Casy. “I know. What you ask about me bein’ in jail for?”

151Tom said slowly, “When you’re in jail—you get to kinda—sensin’ stuff. Guys ain’t let to talk a hell of a lot together—two maybe, but not a crowd. An’ so you get kinda sensy. If somepin’s gonna bust—if say a fella’s goin’ stir-bugs an’ take a crack at a guard with a mop handle—why, you know it ’fore it happens. An’ if they’s gonna be a break or a riot, nobody don’t have to tell ya. You’re sensy about it. You know.”

152“Yeah?”

153“Stick aroun’,” said Tom. “Stick aroun’ till tomorra anyways. Somepin’s gonna come up. I was talkin’ to a kid up the road. An’ he’s bein’ jus’ as sneaky an’ wise as a dog coyote, but he’s too wise. Dog coyote a-mindin’ his own business an’ innocent an’ sweet, jus’ havin’ fun an’ no harm—well, they’s a hen roost clost by.”

154Casy watched him intently, started to ask a question, and then shut his mouth tightly. He waggled his toes slowly and, releasing his knees, pushed out his foot so he could see it. “Yeah,” he said, “I won’t go right yet.”

155Tom said, “When a bunch a folks, nice quiet folks, don’t know nothin’ about nothin’—somepin’s goin’ on.”

156“I’ll stay,” said Casy.

157“An’ tomorra we’ll go out in the truck an’ look for work.”

158“Yeah!” said Casy, and he waved his toes up and down and studied them gravely. Tom settled back on his elbow and closed his eyes. Inside the tent he could hear the murmur of Rose of Sharon’s voice and Connie’s answering.

159The tarpaulin made a dark shadow and the wedge-shaped light at each end was hard and sharp. Rose of Sharon lay on a mattress and Connie squatted beside her. “I oughta help Ma,” Rose of Sharon said. “I tried, but ever’ time I stirred about I throwed up.”

160Connie’s eyes were sullen. “If I’d of knowed it would be like this I wouldn’ of came. I’d a studied nights ’bout tractors back home an’ got me a three-dollar job. Fella can live awful nice on three dollars a day, an’ go to the pitcher show ever’ night, too.”

161Rose of Sharon looked apprehensive. “You’re gonna study nights ’bout radios,” she said. He was long in answering. “Ain’t you?” she demanded.

162“Yeah, sure. Soon’s I get on my feet. Get a little money.”

163She rolled up on her elbow. “You ain’t givin’ it up!”

164“No—no—’course not. But—I didn’ know they was places like this we got to live in.”

165The girl’s eyes hardened. “You got to,” she said quietly.

166“Sure. Sure, I know. Got to get on my feet. Get a little money. Would a been better maybe to stay home an’ study ’bout tractors. Three dollars a day they get, an’ pick up extra money, too.” Rose of Sharon’s eyes were calculating. When he looked down at her he saw in her eyes a measuring of him, a calculation of him. “But I’m gonna study,” he said. “Soon’s I get on my feet.”

167She said fiercely, “We got to have a house ’fore the baby comes. We ain’t gonna have this baby in no tent.”

168“Sure,” he said. “Soon’s I get on my feet.” He went out of the tent and looked down at Ma, crouched over the brush fire. Rose of Sharon rolled on her back and stared at the top of the tent. And then she put her thumb in her mouth for a gag and she cried silently.

169Ma knelt beside the fire, breaking twigs to keep the flame up under the stew kettle. The fire flared and dropped and flared and dropped. The children, fifteen of them, stood silently and watched. And when the smell of the cooking stew came to their noses, their noses crinkled slightly. The sunlight glistened on hair tawny with dust. The children were embarrassed to be there, but they did not go. Ma talked quietly to a little girl who stood inside the lusting circle. She was older than the rest. She stood on one foot, caressing the back of her leg with a bare instep. Her arms were clasped behind her. She watched Ma with steady small gray eyes. She suggested, “I could break up some bresh if you want me, ma’am.”

170Ma looked up from her work. “You want ta get ast to eat, huh?”

171“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said steadily.

172Ma slipped the twigs under the pot and the flame made a puttering sound. “Didn’ you have no breakfast?”

173“No, ma’am. They ain’t no work hereabouts. Pa’s in tryin’ to sell some stuff to git gas so’s we can git ’long.”

174Ma looked up. “Didn’ none of these here have no breakfast?”

175The circle of children shifted nervously and looked away from the boiling kettle. One small boy said boastfully, “I did—me an’ my brother did—an’ them two did, ’cause I seen ’em. We et good. We’re a-goin’ south tonight.”

176Ma smiled. “Then you ain’t hungry. They ain’t enough here to go around.”

177The small boy’s lip stuck out. “We et good,” he said, and he turned and ran and dived into a tent. Ma looked after him so long that the oldest girl reminded her.

178“The fire’s down, ma’am. I can keep it up if you want.”

179Ruthie and Winfield stood inside the circle, comporting themselves with proper frigidity and dignity. They were aloof, and at the same time possessive. Ruthie turned cold and angry eyes on the little girl. Ruthie squatted down to break up the twigs for Ma.

180Ma lifted the kettle lid and stirred the stew with a stick. “I’m sure glad some of you ain’t hungry. That little fella ain’t, anyways.”

181The girl sneered. “Oh, him! He was a-braggin’. High an’ mighty. If he don’t have no supper—know what he done? Las’ night, come out an’ say they got chicken to eat. Well, sir, I looked in whilst they was a-eatin’ an’ it was fried dough jus’ like ever’body else.”

182“Oh!” And Ma looked down toward the tent where the small boy had gone. She looked back at the little girl. “How long you been in California?” she asked.

183“Oh, ’bout six months. We lived in a gov’ment camp a while, an’ then we went north, an’ when we come back it was full up. That’s a nice place to live, you bet.”

184“Where’s that?” Ma asked. And she took the sticks from Ruthie’s hand and fed the fire. Ruthie glared with hatred at the older girl.

185“Over by Weedpatch. Got nice toilets an’ baths, an’ you kin wash clothes in a tub, an’ they’s water right handy, good drinkin’ water; an’ nights the folks plays music an’ Sat’dy night they give a dance. Oh, you never seen anything so nice. Got a place for kids to play, an’ them toilets with paper. Pull down a little jigger an’ the water comes right in the toilet; an’ they ain’t no cops let to come look in your tent any time they want, an’ the fella runs the camp is so polite, comes a-visitin’ an’ talks an’ ain’t high an’ mighty. I wisht we could go live there again.”

186Ma said, “I never heard about it. I sure could use a wash tub, I tell you.”

187The girl went on excitedly, “Why, God Awmighty, they got hot water right in pipes, an’ you get in under a shower bath an’ it’s warm. You never seen such a place.”

188Ma said, “All full now, ya say?”

189“Yeah. Las’ time we ast it was.”

190“Mus’ cost a lot,” said Ma.

191“Well, it costs, but if you ain’t got the money, they let you work it out—couple hours a week, cleanin’ up, an’ garbage cans. Stuff like that. An’ nights they’s music an’ folks talks together an’ hot water right in the pipes. You never seen nothin’ so nice.”

192Ma said, “I sure wisht we could go there.”

193Ruthie had stood all she could. She blurted fiercely, “Granma died right on top a the truck.” The girl looked questioningly at her. “Well, she did,” Ruthie said. “An’ the cor’ner got her.” She closed her lips tightly and broke up a little pile of sticks.

194Winfield blinked at the boldness of the attack. “Right on the truck,” he echoed. “Cor’ner stuck her in a big basket.”

195Ma said, “You shush now, both of you, or you got to go away.” And she fed twigs into the fire.

196Down the line Al had strolled to watch the valve-grinding job. “Looks like you’re ’bout through,” he said.

197“Two more.”

198“Is they any girls in this here camp?”

199“I got a wife,” said the young man. “I got no time for girls.”

200“I always got time for girls,” said Al. “I got no time for nothin’ else.”

201“You get a little hungry an’ you’ll change.”

202Al laughed. “Maybe. But I ain’t never changed that notion yet.”

203“Fella I talked to while ago, he’s with you, ain’t he?”

204“Yeah! My brother Tom. Better not fool with him. He killed a fella.”

205“Did? What for?”

206“Fight. Fella got a knife in Tom. Tom busted ’im with a shovel.”

207“Did, huh? What’d the law do?”

208“Let ’im off ’cause it was a fight,” said Al.

209“He don’t look like a quarreler.”

210“Oh, he ain’t. But Tom don’t take nothin’ from nobody.” Al’s voice was very proud. “Tom, he’s quiet. But—look out!”

211“Well—I talked to ’im. He didn’ soun’ mean.”

212“He ain’t. Jus’ as nice as pie till he’s roused, an’ then—look out.” The young man ground at the last valve. “Like me to he’p you get them valves set an’ the head on?”

213“Sure, if you got nothin’ else to do.”

214“Oughta get some sleep,” said Al. “But, hell, I can’t keep my han’s out of a tore-down car. Jus’ got to git in.”

215“Well, I’d admire to git a hand,” said the young man. “My name’s Floyd Knowles.”

216“I’m Al Joad.”

217“Proud to meet ya.”

218“Me too,” said Al. “Gonna use the same gasket?”

219“Got to,” said Floyd.

220Al took out his pocket knife and scraped at the block. “Jesus!” he said. “They ain’t nothin’ I love like the guts of a engine.”

221“How ’bout girls?”

222“Yeah, girls too! Wisht I could tear down a Rolls an’ put her back. I looked under the hood of a Cad’ 16 one time an’, God Awmighty, you never seen nothin’ so sweet in your life! In Sallisaw—an’ here’s this 16 a-standin’ in front of a restaurant, so I lifts the hood. An’ a guy comes out an’ says, ‘What the hell you doin’?’ I says, ‘Jus’ lookin’. Ain’t she swell?’ An’ he jus’ stands there. I don’t think he ever looked in her before. Jus’ stands there. Rich fella in a straw hat. Got a stripe’ shirt on, an’ eye glasses. We don’ say nothin’. Jus’ look. An’ purty soon he says, ‘How’d you like to drive her?’ ”

223Floyd said, “The hell!”

224“Sure—‘How’d you like to drive her?’ Well, hell, I got on jeans—all dirty. I says, ‘I’d get her dirty.’ ‘Come on!’ he says. ‘Jus’ take her roun’ the block.’ Well, sir, I set in that seat an’ I took her roun’ the block eight times, an’, oh, my God Almighty!”

225“Nice?” Floyd asked.

226“Oh, Jesus!” said Al. “If I could of tore her down why—I’d a give—anythin’.”

227Floyd slowed his jerking arm. He lifted the last valve from its seat and looked at it. “You better git use’ ta a jalopy,” he said, “ ’cause you ain’t goin’ a drive no 16.” He put his brace down on the running board and took up a chisel to scrape the crust from the block. Two stocky women, bare-headed and bare-footed, went by carrying a bucket of milky water between them. They limped against the weight of the bucket, and neither one looked up from the ground. The sun was half down in afternoon.

228Al said, “You don’t like nothin’ much.”

229Floyd scraped harder with the chisel. “I been here six months,” he said. “I been scrabblin’ over this here State tryin’ to work hard enough and move fast enough to get meat an’ potatoes for me an’ my wife an’ my kids. I’ve run myself like a jackrabbit an’—I can’t quite make her. There just ain’t quite enough to eat no matter what I do. I’m gettin’ tired, that’s all. I’m gettin’ tired way past where sleep rests me. An’ I jus’ don’ know what to do.”

230“Ain’t there no steady work for a fella?” Al asked.

231“No, they ain’t no steady work.” With his chisel he pushed the crust off the block, and he wiped the dull metal with a greasy rag.

232A rusty touring car drove down into the camp and there were four men in it, men with brown hard faces. The car drove slowly through the camp. Floyd called to them, “Any luck?”

233The car stopped. The driver said, “We covered a hell of a lot a ground. They ain’t a hand’s work in this here country. We gotta move.”

234“Where to?” Al called.

235“God knows. We worked this here place over.” He let in his clutch and moved slowly down the camp.