The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [242]
Lines of people moving across the fields. Finger-wise. Inquisitive fingers snick in and out and find the bolls. Hardly have to look.
Bet I could pick cotton if I was blind. Got a feelin’ for a cotton boll. Pick clean, clean as a whistle.
Sack’s full now. Take her to the scales. Argue. Scale man says you got rocks to make weight. How ’bout him? His scales is fixed. Sometimes he’s right, you got rocks in the sack. Sometimes you’re right, the scales is crooked. Sometimes both; rocks an’ crooked scales. Always argue, always fight. Keeps your head up. An’ his head up. What’s a few rocks? Jus’ one, maybe. Quarter pound? Always argue.
Back with the empty sack. Got our own book. Mark in the weight. Got to. If they know you’re markin’, then they don’t cheat. But God he’p ya if ya don’ keep your own weight.
This is good work. Kids runnin’ aroun’. Heard ’bout the cotton-pickin’ machine?1
Yeah, I heard.
Think it’ll ever come?
Well, if it comes—fella says it’ll put han’ pickin’ out.
Come night. All tired. Good pickin’, though. Got three dollars, me an’ the ol’ woman an’ the kids.
The cars move to the cotton fields. The cotton camps set up. The screened high trucks and trailers are piled high with white fluff. Cotton clings to the fence wires, and cotton rolls in little balls along the road when the wind blows. And clean white cotton, going to the gin. And the big, lumpy bales standing, going to the compress. And cotton clinging to your clothes and stuck to your whiskers. Blow your nose, there’s cotton in your nose.
Hunch along now, fill up the bag ’fore dark. Wise fingers seeking in the bolls. Hips hunching along, dragging the bag. Kids are tired, now in the evening. They trip over their feet in the cultivated earth. And the sun is going down.
Wisht it would last. It ain’t much money, God knows, but I wisht it would last.
On the highway the old cars piling in, drawn by the handbills.
Got a cotton bag?
No.
Cost ya a dollar, then.
If they was on’y fifty of us, we could stay awhile, but they’s five hunderd. She won’t last hardly at all. I knowed a fella never did git his bag paid out. Ever’ job he got a new bag, an’ ever’ fiel’ was done ’fore he got his weight.
Try for God’s sake ta save a little money! Winter’s comin’ fast. They ain’t no work at all in California in the winter. Fill up the bag ’fore it’s dark. I seen that fella put two clods in.
Well, hell. Why not? I’m jus’ balancin’ the crooked scales.
Now here’s my book, three hunderd an’ twelve poun’s.
Right!
Jesus, he never argued! His scales mus’ be crooked. Well, that’s a nice day anyways.
They say a thousan’ men are on their way to this field. We’ll be fightin’ for a row tomorra. We’ll be snatchin’ cotton, quick.
Cotton Pickers Wanted. More men picking, quicker to the gin.
Now into the cotton camp.
Side-meat tonight, by God! We got money for side-meat! Stick out a han’ to the little fella, he’s wore out. Run in ahead an’ git us four poun’ of side-meat. The ol’ woman’ll make some nice biscuits tonight, ef she ain’t too tired.
Chapter 28
THE BOXCARS, twelve of them, stood end to end on a little flat beside the stream. There were two rows of six each, the wheels removed. Up to the big sliding doors slatted planks ran for cat-walks. They made good houses, water-tight and draftless, room for twenty-four families, one family in each end of each car. No windows, but the wide doors stood open. In some of the cars a canvas hung down in the center of the car, while in others only the position of the door made the boundary.
The Joads had one end of an end car. Some previous occupant had fitted up an oil can with a stovepipe, had made a hole in the wall for the stovepipe. Even with the wide door open, it was dark in the ends of the car. Ma hung the tarpaulin across the middle of the car.
“It’s nice,’’ she said. “It’s almost nicer than anything we had ’cept the gov’ment camp.’’
Each night she unrolled the mattresses on the floor, and each morning rolled them