Tom 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.”
The young man made a sweeping circle with his hand, and his hand took in the ragged tents and the rusty cars.
Tom 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.”
“Like a cop?”
“Like anybody.”
“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.”’
Tom said,
“They’ll be somebody else foun’ dead right ’longside of this here vagrant.”
“You’re nuts,” said the young man. “Won’t be no good in that.”
“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.
“Nothin’.
Where you from?”
“Us?
Right near Sallisaw, Oklahoma.”
“Jus’ get in?”
“Jus’ today.”
“Gonna be aroun’ here long?”
“Don’t know.
We’ll stay wherever we can get work.
Why?”
“Nothin’.” And the veil came down again.
“Got to sleep up,” said Tom. “Tomorra we’ll go out lookin’ for work.”
“You kin try.”
Tom turned away and moved toward the Joad tent.
The young man took up the can of valve compound and dug his finger into it.
“Hi!” he called.
Tom turned.
“What you want?”
“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?”
“Fella in the tent up there?”
“Yeah—looked dumb—no sense?”
“What about him?”
“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.”