“They’s a lot a fellas wanta know what reds is.” He laughed. “One of our boys foun’ out.” He patted the piled earth gently with his shovel. “Fella named Hines—got ’bout thirty thousan’ acres, peaches and grapes—got a cannery an’ a winery.
Well, he’s all a time talkin’ about ‘them goddamn reds.’
‘Goddamn reds is drivin’ the country to ruin,’ he says, an’‘We got to drive these here red bastards out.’
Well, they were a young fella jus’ come out west here, an’ he’s listenin’ one day. He kinda scratched his head an’ he says,
‘Mr. Hines, I ain’t been here long.
What is these goddamn reds?’
Well, sir, Hines says,
‘A red is any son-of-a-bitch that wants thirty cents an hour when we’re payin’ twenty-five!’
Well, this young fella he thinks about her, an’ he scratches his head, an’ he says,
‘Well, Jesus, Mr. Hines.
I ain’t a son-of-a-bitch, but if that’s what a red is—why, I want thirty cents an hour.
Ever’body does.
Hell, Mr. Hines, we’re all reds.”’ Timothy drove his shovel along the ditch bottom, and the solid earth shone where the shovel cut it.
Tom laughed.
“Me too, I guess.” His pick arced up and drove down, and the earth cracked under it.
The sweat rolled down his forehead and down the sides of his nose, and it glistened on his neck. “Damn it,” he said, “a pick is a nice tool (umph), if you don’ fight it (umph).
You an’ the pick (umph) workin’ together (umph).”
In line, the three men worked, and the ditch inched along, and the sun shone hotly down on them in the growing morning.
When Tom left her, Ruthie gazed in at the door of the sanitary unit for a while.
Her courage was not strong without Winfield to boast for.
She put a bare foot in on the concrete floor, and then withdrew it.
Down the line a woman came out of a tent and started a fire in a tin camp stove.
Ruthie took a few steps in that direction, but she could not leave.
She crept to the entrance of the Joad tent and looked in.
On one side, lying on the ground, lay Uncle John, his mouth open and his snores bubbling spittily in his throat.
Ma and Pa were covered with a comfort, their heads in, away from the light.
Al was on the far side from Uncle John, and his arm was flung over his eyes.
Near the front of the tent Rose of Sharon and Winfield lay, and there was the space where Ruthie had been, beside Winfield.
She squatted down and peered in.
Her eyes remained on Winfield’s tow head; and as she looked, the little boy opened his eyes and stared out at her, and his eyes were solemn.
Ruthie put her finger to her lips and beckoned with her other hand.
Winfield rolled his eyes over to Rose of Sharon.
Her pink flushed face was near to him, and her mouth was open a little.
Winfield carefully loosened the blanket and slipped out.
He crept out of the tent cautiously and joined Ruthie.
“How long you been up?” he whispered.
She led him away with elaborate caution, and when they were safe, she said,
“I never been to bed.
I was up all night.”
“You was not,” Winfield said. “You’re a dirty liar.”
“Awright,” she said.
“If I’m a liar I ain’t gonna tell you nothin’ that happened.
I ain’t gonna tell how the fella got killed with a stab knife an’ how they was a bear come in an’ took off a little chile.”
“They wasn’t no bear,” Winfield said uneasily.
He brushed up his hair with his fingers and he pulled down his overalls at the crotch.
“All right—they wasn’t no bear,” she said sarcastically. “An’ they ain’t no white things made outa dish-stuff, like in the catalogues.”
Winfield regarded her gravely.
He pointed to the sanitary unit.
“In there?” he asked.
“I’m a dirty liar,” Ruthie said.