Looked like Happy Hooligan. Harmless kinda fella.
Always was gonna make a break. Fellas all called him Hooligan.” Tom laughed to himself.
“Don’ think about it,” Ma begged.
“Go on,” said Al. “Tell about the fella.”
“It don’t hurt nothin’, Ma,” Tom said. “This fella was always gonna break out.
Make a plan, he would; but he couldn’ keep it to himself an’ purty soon ever’body knowed it, even the warden.
He’d make his break an’ they’d take ’im by the han’ an’ lead ’im back.
Well, one time he drawed a plan where he’s goin’ over. ’Course he showed it aroun’, an’ ever’body kep’ still.
An’ he hid out, an’ ever’body kep’ still.
So he’s got himself a rope somewheres, an’ he goes over the wall.
They’s six guards outside with a great big sack, an’ Hooligan comes quiet down the rope an’ they jus’ hol’ the sack out an’ he goes right inside.
They tie up the mouth an’ take ’im back inside.
Fellas laughed so hard they like to died.
But it busted Hooligan’s spirit.
He jus’ cried an’ cried, an’ moped aroun’ an’ got sick. Hurt his feelin’s so bad. Cut his wrists with a pin an’ bled to death ’cause his feelin’s was hurt.
No harm in ’im at all.
They’s all kinds a screwballs in stir.”
“Don’ talk about it,” Ma said. “I knowed Purty Boy Floyd’s ma.
He wan’t a bad boy.
Jus’ got drove in a corner.”
The sun moved up toward noon and the shadow of the truck grew lean and moved in under the wheels.
“Mus’ be Pixley up the road,” Al said. “Seen a sign a little back.” They drove into the little town and turned eastward on a narrower road.
And the orchards lined the way and made an aisle.
“Hope we can find her easy,” Tom said.
Ma said,
“That fella said the Hooper ranch.
Said anybody’d tell us.
Hope they’s a store near by. Might get some credit, with four men workin’.
I could get a real nice supper if they’d gimme some credit.
Make up a big stew maybe.”
“An’ coffee,” said Tom. “Might even get me a sack a Durham.
I ain’t had no tobacca of my own for a long time.”
Far ahead the road was blocked with cars, and a line of white motorcycles was drawn up along the roadside.
“Mus’ be a wreck,” Tom said.
As they drew near a State policeman, in boots and Sam Browne belt, stepped around the last parked car.
He held up his hand and Al pulled to a stop.
The policeman leaned confidentially on the side of the car.
“Where you going?”
Al said,
“Fella said they was work pickin’ peaches up this way.”
“Want to work, do you?”
“Damn right,” said Tom.
“O.K.
Wait here a minute.” He moved to the side of the road and called ahead. “One more.
That’s six cars ready.
Better take this batch through.”
Tom called,
“Hey!
What’s the matter?”
The patrol man lounged back.