The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [173]
“Poor John,’’ Ma said. “I wondered if it would a done any good if— no—I guess not. I never seen a man so drove.’’
Ruthie turned on her side in the dust. She put her head close to Winfield’s head and pulled his ear against her mouth. She whispered, “I’m gonna get drunk.’’ Winfield snorted and pinched his mouth tight. The two children crawled away, holding their breath, their faces purple with the pressure of their giggles. They crawled around the tent and leaped up and ran squealing away from the tent. They ran to the willows, and once concealed, they shrieked with laughter. Ruthie crossed her eyes and loosened her joints; she staggered about, tripping loosely, with her tongue hanging out. “I’m drunk,’’ she said.
“Look,’’ Winfield cried. “Looka me, here’s me, an’ I’m Uncle John.’’ He flapped his arms and puffed, he whirled until he was dizzy.
“No,’’ said Ruthie. “Here’s the way. Here’s the way. I’m Uncle John. I’m awful drunk.’’
Al and Tom walked quietly through the willows, and they came on the children staggering crazily about. The dusk was thick now. Tom stopped and peered. “Ain’t that Ruthie an’ Winfiel’? What the hell’s the matter with ’em?’’ They walked nearer. “You crazy?’’ Tom asked.
The children stopped, embarrassed. “We was—jus’ playin’,’’ Ruthie said.
“It’s a crazy way to play,’’ said Al.
Ruthie said pertly, “It ain’t no crazier’n a lot of things.’’
Al walked on. He said to Tom, “Ruthie’s workin’ up a kick in the pants. She been workin’ it up a long time. ’Bout due for it.’’
Ruthie mushed her face at his back, pulled out her mouth with her forefingers, slobbered her tongue at him, outraged him in every way she knew, but Al did not turn back to look at her. She looked at Winfield again to start the game, but it had been spoiled. They both knew it.
“Le’s go down the water an’ duck our heads,’’ Winfield suggested. They walked down through the willows, and they were angry at Al.
Al and Tom went quietly in the dusk. Tom said, “Casy shouldn’ of did it. I might of knew, though. He was talkin’ how he ain’t done nothin’ for us. He’s a funny fella, Al. All the time thinkin’.’’
“Comes from bein’ a preacher,’’ Al said. “They get all messed up with stuff.’’
“Where ya s’pose Connie was a-goin’?’’
“Goin’ to take a crap, I guess.’’
“Well, he was goin’ a hell of a long way.’’
They walked among the tents, keeping close to the walls. At Floyd’s tent a soft hail stopped them. They came near to the tent flap and squatted down. Floyd raised the canvas a little. “You gettin’ out?’’
Tom said, “I don’ know. Think we better?’’
Floyd laughed sourly. “You heard what that bull said. They’ll burn ya out if ya don’t. ’F you think that guy’s gonna take a beatin’ ’thout gettin’ back, you’re nuts. The pool-room boys’ll be down here tonight to burn us out.’’
“Guess we better git, then,’’ Tom said. “Where you a-goin’?’’
“Why, up north, like I said.’’
Al said, “Look, a fella tol’ me ’bout a gov’ment camp near here. Where’s it at?’’
“Oh, I think that’s full up.’’
“Well, where’s it at?’’
“Go south on 99 ’bout twelve-fourteen miles, an’ turn east to Weedpatch. It’s right near there. But I think she’s full up.’’
“Fella says it’s nice,’’ Al said.
“Sure, she’s nice. Treat ya like a man ’stead of a dog. Ain’t no cops there. But she’s full up.’’
Tom said, “What I can’t understan’s why that cop was so mean. Seemed like he was aimin’ for trouble; seemed like he’s pokin’ a fella to make trouble.’’
Floyd said, “I don’ know about here, but up north I knowed one a them fellas, an’ he was a nice fella. He tol’ me up there the deputies got to take guys in. Sheriff gets seventy-five cents a day for each prisoner, an’ he feeds ’em for a quarter. If he ain’t got prisoners, he don’t make no profit. This fella says he didn’ pick up nobody for a week, an’ the sheriff tol’ ’im he better bring in guys or give up his button. This fella today sure looks like he’s out to make a pinch one way or another.’’
“We got to get on,’’ said Tom. “So long, Floyd.’’
“So long. Prob’ly see you. Hope so.’’