“Why in hell you gonna git me on?
I’ll make it shorter.
What you cuttin’ your own throat for?”
Timothy shook his head slowly.
“I dunno.
Got no sense, I guess.
We figgered to get us each a hat.
Can’t do it, I guess.
There’s the place, off to the right there.
Nice job, too.
Gettin’ thirty cents an hour.
Nice frien’ly fella to work for.”
They turned off the highway and walked down a graveled road, through a small kitchen orchard; and behind the trees they came to a small white farm house, a few shade trees, and a barn; behind the barn a vineyard and a field of cotton.
As the three men walked past the house a screen door banged, and a stocky sunburned man came down the back steps.
He wore a paper sun helmet, and he rolled up his sleeves as he came across the yard.
His heavy sunburned eyebrows were drawn down in a scowl.
His cheeks were sunburned a beef red.
“Mornin’, Mr. Thomas,” Timothy said.
“Morning.” The man spoke irritably.
Timothy said,
“This here’s Tom Joad.
We wondered if you could see your way to put him on?”
Thomas scowled at Tom. And then he laughed shortly, and his brows still scowled.
“Oh, sure!
I’ll put him on.
I’ll put everybody on.
Maybe I’ll get a hundred men on.”
“We jus’ thought—” Timothy began apologetically.
Thomas interrupted him.
“Yes, I been thinkin’ too.” He swung around and faced them. “I’ve got some things to tell you.
I been paying you thirty cents an hour—that right?”
“Why, sure, Mr. Thomas—but——”
“And I been getting thirty cents’ worth of work.” His heavy hard hands clasped each other.
“We try to give a good day of work.”
“Well, goddamn it, this morning you’re getting twenty-five cents an hour, and you take it or leave it.” The redness of his face deepened with anger.
Timothy said,
“We’ve give you good work.
You said so yourself.”
“I know it.
But it seems like I ain’t hiring my own men any more.” He swallowed. “Look,” he said.
“I got sixty-five acres here.
Did you ever hear of the Farmers’ Association?”
“Why, sure.”
“Well, I belong to it.
We had a meeting last night.
Now, do you know who runs the Farmers’ Association?
I’ll tell you.
The Bank of the West.
That bank owns most of this valley, and it’s got paper on everything it don’t own.
So last night the member from the bank told me, he said,