Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [4]
But we kept our eyes on the ground, absorbed in our work, for Eyeballing is punishable by being put in the Box. And we knew that today the guards were nervous. They chewed their quids and scratched their ears and rearranged their hats. They did all the things they always do. But they were watching us. They were waiting.
Patiently we swung our tools, the grass rustling with every cut. At the end of each blurred arc of flashing steel there rose a fluttering green cloud within which we dawdled like the sleepwalkers we are, lulled by the constant swish of the passing traffic and the subtle melody tinkling from the ankles of the Chain Men.
The hours passed. Every few hundred yards Rabbit the Waterboy would take the flag in front and walk up the road with it to stick it in the ground. Jim the Trustee would go back and bring up the flag from the rear. Then each of them would start up one of the trucks and drive it ahead to park and wait for us to catch up with our slow and ponderous advance.
Every so often, Rabbit would fill the water bucket from the big oak barrel in the tool truck, waddling as he went down the road. He went to the Walking Boss first, who took the dipper, drank a few mouthfuls and threw the rest on the ground with a splat. Then Rabbit went to each of the guards in turn, crossing the road and struggling up and down the embankment to offer them the dipper. Then he went from one convict to another, each one putting down his yo-yo and yelling out—
Gettin‘ a drink here, Boss!
Yeah. Get a drink there, Bama.
Eagerly the man would drink down the water, some of it running down his heaving chest and belly, ignored and lost in the sheen of sweat that glistened on his body and made his pants sopping wet and muddy. Again he would fill the dipper, pausing with gasping breaths. Then he put it back in the bucket and resumed his rhythmic swinging, Rabbit dodging the flashing yo-yos, moving up to the next man in line who lowered his blade, looked around him at the armed horizon and called out—
Drinkin‘ it up, here. Boss!
O.K. Drink it up.
Behind us or beside us strolled the Walking Boss, idly swinging his hickory cane. As usual, he gave us no sign whatever of his thoughts or his mood. Sometimes he would sit on the running board of one of the trucks or sit inside the cab. And sometimes he would light up a cigar and walk within a fragrant and inspired cloud, pulling out his enormous pocket watch and putting it back while we swung our yo-yos and looked down at our feet.
The time went on. Occasionally there would be a call.
Pourin‘ it out down here—Boss!
O.K. Pour it out.
Making sure that all the guards had heard, the man would go down to the bottom of the slope and drop to his knees with his back turned to the road, his shoulders slumped in a humble attitude, ignoring the passing Free World while genuflecting over the puddle of piss which slowly spread between his knees. Then—
Gettin‘ back here, Boss Brown!
All right. Git on back.
Not long before Smoking Period there was a sudden yell somewhere up near the head of the line. I could see Stupid Blondie up there hitting at the ground with his yo-yo and yelling—
Snake! Snake!
The whole gang came alive, men dodging here and there in a melee of swinging tools, trying to stop the rattler skimming through the grass. But no one could go more than three or four feet from his position, each one guarding his own area and flailing away as the snake zigzagged first one way and then another. Once it almost got away under the barbed wire that bordered the edge of the right of way. But Dragline was bringing up the rear, working along the fence. Normally a Chain Man has the privilege of working on top of the shoulder where the walking is much easier. But of course Dragline was in a very deep mood today, suffering from