We’ll be fightin’ for a row tomorra. We’ll be snatchin’ cotton, quick.
Cotton Pickers Wanted.
More men picking, quicker to the gin.
Now into the cotton camp.
Side-meat tonight, by God!
We got money for side-meat!
Stick out a han’ to the little fella, he’s wore out.
Run in ahead an’ git us four poun’ of side-meat.
The ol’ woman’ll make some nice biscuits tonight, ef she ain’t too tired.
Chapter 28
The boxcars, twelve of them, stood end to end on a little flat beside the stream.
There were two rows of six each, the wheels removed.
Up to the big sliding doors slatted planks ran for cat-walks.
They made good houses, water-tight and draftless, room for twenty-four families, one family in each end of each car.
No windows, but the wide doors stood open.
In some of the cars a canvas hung down in the center of the car, while in others only the position of the door made the boundary.
The Joads had one end of an end car.
Some previous occupant had fitted up an oil can with a stovepipe, had made a hole in the wall for the stovepipe.
Even with the wide door open, it was dark in the ends of the car.
Ma hung the tarpaulin across the middle of the car.
“It’s nice,” she said. “It’s almost nicer than anything we had ’cept the gov’ment camp.”
Each night she unrolled the mattresses on the floor, and each morning rolled them up again.
And every day they went into the fields and picked the cotton, and every night they had meat.
On a Saturday they drove into Tulare, and they bought a tin stove and new overalls for Al and Pa and Winfield and Uncle John, and they bought a dress for Ma and gave Ma’s best dress to Rose of Sharon.
“She’s so big,” Ma said. “Jus’ a waste of good money to get her a new dress now.”
The Joads had been lucky.
They got in early enough to have a place in the boxcars.
Now the tents of the late-comers filled the little flat, and those who had the boxcars were old timers, and in a way aristocrats.
The narrow stream slipped by, out of the willows, and back into the willows again.
From each car a hard-beaten path went down to the stream.
Between the cars the clothes lines hung, and every day the lines were covered with drying clothes.
In the evening they walked back from the fields, carrying their folded cotton bags under their arms.
They went into the store which stood at the crossroads, and there were many pickers in the store, buying their supplies.
“How much today?”
“We’re doin’ fine.
We made three and a half today.
Wisht she’d keep up.
Them kids is gettin’ to be good pickers.
Ma’s worked ’em up a little bag for each.
They couldn’ tow a growed-up bag.
Dump into ours.
Made bags outa a couple old shirts.
Work fine.”
And Ma went to the meat counter, her forefinger pressed against her lips, blowing on her finger, thinking deeply.
“Might get some pork chops,” she said.
“How much?”
“Thirty cents a pound, ma’am.”
“Well, lemme have three poun’s.
An’ a nice piece a boilin’ beef.
My girl can cook it tomorra.