“Right there?”
“Yeah.
Now you let the others unload while I sign you up.
Get to sleep.
The camp committee’ll call on you in the morning and get you fixed up.”
Tom’s eyes drew down.
“Cops?” he asked.
The watchman laughed.
“No cops.
We got our own cops.
Folks here elect their own cops.
Come along.”
Al dropped off the truck and walked around.
“Gonna stay here?”
“Yeah,” said Tom. “You an’ Pa unload while I go to the office.”
“Be kinda quiet,” the watchman said. “They’s a lot of folks sleeping.”
Tom followed through the dark and climbed the office steps and entered a tiny room containing an old desk and a chair.
The guard sat down at the desk and took out a form.
“Name?”
“Tom Joad.”
“That your father?”
“Yeah.”
“His name?”
“Tom Joad, too.”
The questions went on.
Where from, how long in the State, what work done.
The watchman looked up.
“I’m not nosy.
We got to have this stuff.”
“Sure,” said Tom.
“Now—got any money?”
“Little bit.”
“You ain’t destitute?”
“Got a little.
Why?”
“Well, the camp site costs a dollar a week, but you can work it out, carrying garbage, keeping the camp clean—stuff like that.”
“We’ll work it out,” said Tom.
“You’ll see the committee tomorrow.
They’ll show you how to use the camp and tell you the rules.”
Tom said,
“Say—what is this?
What committee is this, anyways?”
The watchman settled himself back.
“Works pretty nice.
There’s five sanitary units.
Each one elects a Central Committee man.
Now that committee makes the laws.
What they say goes.”
“S’pose they get tough,” Tom said.
“Well, you can vote ’em out jus’ as quick as you vote ’em in.