Tom walked slowly.
He neared Number Four Sanitary Unit and he looked at it curiously, an unpainted building, low and rough.
Under a roof, but open at the sides, the rows of wash trays.
He saw the Joad truck standing near by, and went quietly toward it.
The tarpaulin was pitched and the camp was quiet.
As he drew near a figure moved from the shadow of the truck and came toward him.
Ma said softly,
“That you, Tom?”
“Yeah.”
“Sh!” she said. “They’re all asleep.
They was tar’d out.”
“You ought to be asleep too,” Tom said.
“Well, I wanted to see ya.
Is it awright?”
“It’s nice,” Tom said. “I ain’t gonna tell ya.
They’ll tell ya in the mornin’.
Ya gonna like it.”
She whispered,
“I heard they got hot water.”
“Yeah.
Now you get to sleep.
I don’ know when you slep’ las’.”
She begged,
“What ain’t you a-gonna tell me?”
“I ain’t.
You get to sleep.”
Suddenly she seemed girlish.
“How can I sleep if I got to think about what you ain’t gonna tell me?”
“No, you don’t,” Tom said. “First thing in the mornin’ you get on your other dress an’ then—you’ll find out.”
“I can’t sleep with nothin’ like that hangin’ over me.”
“You got to,” Tom chuckled happily. “You jus’ got to.”
“Good night,” she said softly; and she bent down and slipped under the dark tarpaulin.
Tom climbed up over the tail-board of the truck.
He lay down on his back on the wooden floor and he pillowed his head on his crossed hands, and his forearms pressed against his ears.
The night grew cooler.
Tom buttoned his coat over his chest and settled back again.
The stars were clear and sharp over his head.
It was still dark when he awakened.
A small clashing noise brought him up from sleep.
Tom listened and heard again the squeak of iron on iron.
He moved stiffly and shivered in the morning air.
The camp still slept.
Tom stood up and looked over the side of the truck.
The eastern mountains were blue-black, and as he watched, the light stood up faintly behind them, colored at the mountain rims with a washed red, then growing colder, grayer, darker, as it went up overhead, until at a place near the western horizon it merged with pure night.
Down in the valley the earth was the lavender-gray of dawn.
The clash of iron sounded again.
Tom looked down the line of tents, only a little lighter gray than the ground.
Beside a tent he saw a flash of orange fire seeping from the cracks in an old iron stove.
Gray smoke spurted up from a stubby smoke-pipe.
Tom climbed over the truck side and dropped to the ground.