“I’m a-goin’,” she said. “Ma, I got to go.”
“Well, you got no cotton sack.
You can’t pull no sack.”
“I’ll pick into your sack.”
“I wisht you wouldn’.”
“I’m a-goin’.”
Ma sighed.
“I’ll keep my eye on you.
Wisht we could have a doctor.”
Rose of Sharon moved nervously about the car.
She put on a light coat and took it off.
“Take a blanket,” Ma said. “Then if you wanta res’, you can keep warm.” They heard the truck motor roar up behind the boxcar. “We gonna be first out,” Ma said exultantly. “Awright, get your sacks.
Ruthie, don’ you forget them shirts I fixed for you to pick in.”
Wainwrights and Joads climbed into the truck in the dark.
The dawn was coming, but it was slow and pale.
“Turn lef’,” Ma told Al. “They’ll be a sign out where we’re goin’.” They drove along the dark road.
And other cars followed them, and behind, in the camp, the cars were being started, the families piling in; and the cars pulled out on the highway and turned left.
A piece of cardboard was tied to a mailbox on the righthand side of the road, and on it, printed with blue crayon,
“Cotton Pickers Wanted.”
Al turned into the entrance and drove out to the barnyard.
And the barnyard was full of cars already.
An electric globe on the end of the white barn lighted a group of men and women standing near the scales, their bags rolled under their arms.
Some of the women wore the bags over their shoulders and crossed in front.
“We ain’t so early as we thought,” said Al.
He pulled the truck against a fence and parked.
The families climbed down and went to join the waiting group, and more cars came in from the road and parked, and more families joined the group.
Under the light on the barn end, the owner signed them in.
“Hawley?” he said. “H-a-w-l-e-y?
How many?”
“Four.
Will——”
“Will.”
“Benton——”
“Benton.”
“Amelia——”
“Amelia.”
“Claire——”
“Claire.
Who’s next?
Carpenter?
How many?”
“Six.”
He wrote them in the book, with a space left for the weights.
“Got your bags?
I got a few.
Cost you a dollar.” And the cars poured into the yard.
The owner pulled his sheep-lined leather jacket up around his throat. He looked at the driveway apprehensively.
“This twenty isn’t gonna take long to pick with all these people,” he said.
Children were climbing into the big cotton trailer, digging their toes into the chicken-wire sides.
“Git off there,” the owner cried. “Come on down.