The Grapes of Wrath Page #34

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Terrified, Winfield comes dashing out of the unit but Ruthie

grabs him just outside the door. Beginning to cry, he

struggles to get away.

WINFIELD:

Lemme go! I didn't go to do it!

RUTHIE:

(fiercely)

Keep qui'te, will ya! Shet your mouth!

WINFIELD:

(weeping)

I never knowed it! All I done was

pull that string!

RUTHIE:

Lissen. You done busted it. You hear?

(They listen to the

refilling of the

tank)

But lissen here. I won't tell nobody,

y'understan'?

WINFIELD:

Please don't.

RUTHIE:

I won't--

(craftily)

--if you won't tell what *I* done!

He nods quickly. Then Ruthie begins to walk away with what

she fancies is an innocent, nonchalant stroll, yawning

casually. Sniffling a little, Winfield mimics her, a very

innocent walk and yawn indeed.

The scene dissolves to a DITCH. Alongside the ditch are some

lengths of concrete pipe. Tom and the two Wallaces are in

the ditch, Tom and Tim picking, Wilkie shoveling.

TOM:

(exulting)

If this don't feel good!

WILKIE:

(chuckling)

Wait'll about 'leven o'clock, see

how good she feels then!

TOM:

Seems like a nice frien'ly fella to

work for, too.

TIM:

Lotta these little farmers mighty

nice fellas. Trouble is they're

little, they ain't got much say-so.

TOM:

Shore looks like my lucky day, anyway.

Gettin' some work at las'.

Mr. Thomas, the farmer, a stock man wearing a paper sun

helmet, enters. His face is worried as he squats down beside

the ditch. What he has come to say has taken some effort and

he is still uncertain and annoyed. The men stop work.

THOMAS:

Lissen here. Maybe I'm talkin' myself

outa my farm, but I like you fellas,

so I'm gonna tell you. You live in

that gov'ment camp, don't you?

TOM:

(stiffening)

Yes, sir.

THOMAS:

And you have dances every Saturday

night?

WILKIE:

(smiling)

We sure do.

THOMAS:

Well, look out next Saturday night.

TIM:

(suddenly tense)

What you mean? I belong to the central

committee. I got to know.

THOMAS:

Don't you ever tell I told.

TIM:

What is it?

THOMAS:

(angrily)

Well, the association don't like the

government camps. Can't get a deputy

in there. Can't arrest a man without

a warrant. But if there was a big

fight, and maybe shooting--a bunch

of deputies could go in and clean

out the camp.

(Unfolding a newspaper)

Like last night. Lissen. "Citizens,

angered at red agitators, burn another

squatters' camp, warn agitators to

get out of the county."

TOM:

(sick of the expression)

Listen. What *is* these reds?

Ever'time you turn aroun' somebody

sayin' somebody else's a red. What

is these reds, anyway?

WILKIE:

(chuckling)

Well, I tell you. They was a fella

up the country named King--got about

30,000 acres an' a cannery an' a

winery--an' he's all a time talkin'

about reds. Drivin' the country to

ruin, he says. Got to git rid of

'em, he says. Well, they was a young

fella jus' come out an' he was

listenin one day. He kinda scratched

his head an' he says, "Mr. King,

what *is* these reds you all a time

talkin' about?" Well, sir, Mr. King

says, "Young man, a red is any fella

that wants thirty cents a hour when

I'm payin' twenty-five."

THOMAS:

(fretfully)

I ain't talkin' about that one way

or the other. All I'm saying is that

there's going to be a fight in the

camp Saturday night. And there's

going to be deputies ready to go in.

TOM:

But why? Those fellas ain't botherin'

nobody.

THOMAS:

I'll tell you why. Those folks in to

being treated like humans. Suppose

the Government closes its camps.

Suppose too many people pass through

'em. Well, when those people go back

to the squatters' camps they'll be

hard to handle.

(Wiping his brow)

Go on back to work now. Maybe I've

talked myself into trouble, but you're

folks like us, and I like you.

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