“You ain’t learned,” he said. “Takes gas to get roun’ the country.
Gas costs fifteen cents a gallon.
Them four fellas can’t take four cars.
So each of ’em puts in a dime an’ they get gas.
You got to learn.”
“Al!” Al looked down at Winfield standing importantly beside him. “Al, Ma’s dishin’ up stew.
She says come git it.”
Al wiped his hands on his trousers.
“We ain’t et today,” he said to Floyd. “I’ll come give you a han’ when I eat.”
“No need ’less you want ta.”
“Sure, I’ll do it.” He followed Winfield toward the Joad camp.
It was crowded now.
The strange children stood close to the stew pot, so close that Ma brushed them with her elbows as she worked.
Tom and Uncle John stood beside her.
Ma said helplessly,
“I dunno what to do.
I got to feed the fambly.
What’m I gonna do with these here?”
The children stood stiffly and looked at her.
Their faces were blank, rigid, and their eyes went mechanically from the pot to the tin plate she held.
Their eyes followed the spoon from pot to plate, and when she passed the steaming plate up to Uncle John, their eyes followed it up.
Uncle John dug his spoon into the stew, and the banked eyes rose up with the spoon.
A piece of potato went into John’s mouth and the banked eyes were on his face, watching to see how he would react. Would it be good? Would he like it?
And then Uncle John seemed to see them for the first time.
He chewed slowly.
“You take this here,” he said to Tom. “I ain’t hungry.”
“You ain’t et today,” Tom said.
“I know, but I got a stomickache.
I ain’t hungry.”
Tom said quietly,
“You take that plate inside the tent an’ you eat it.”
“I ain’t hungry,” John insisted. “I’d still see ’em inside the tent.”
Tom turned on the children.
“You git,” he said. “Go on now, git.” The bank of eyes left the stew and rested wondering on his face. “Go on now, git.
You ain’t doin’ no good.
There ain’t enough for you.”
Ma ladled stew into the tin plates, very little stew, and she laid the plates on the ground.
“I can’t send ’em away,” she said. “I don’ know what to do.
Take your plates an’ go inside.
I’ll let ’em have what’s lef’.
Here, take a plate in to Rosasharn.” She smiled up at the children. “Look,” she said, “you little fellas go an’ get you each a flat stick an’ I’ll put what’s lef’ for you.
But they ain’t to be no fightin’.”
The group broke up with a deadly, silent swiftness.
Children ran to find sticks, they ran to their own tents and brought spoons.
Before Ma had finished with the plates they were back, silent and wolfish.
Ma shook her head.
“I dunno what to do.
I can’t rob the fambly.
I got to feed the fambly.
Ruthie, Winfiel’, Al,” she cried fiercely. “Take your plates. Hurry up.