The Grapes of Wrath Page #61

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TOM:

(to the children)

You git. Go on now, git. You ain't

doin' no good. They ain't enough for

you.

The children retreat a step, but no more, and then look

wonderingly at him.

MA:

We can't send 'em away. Take your

plates an' go inside. Take a plate

to Rosasharn.

(Smiling, to the

children)

Look. You little fellas go an' get

you each a flat stick an' I'll put

what's lef' for you.

(The children scatter)

But they ain't to be no fightin'!

(Dishing plates for

Ruthie and Winfield)

I don't know if I'm doin' right or

not but--go inside, ever'body stay

inside.

(The children are

back)

They ain't enough. All you gonna get

is jus' a taste but--I can't help

it, I can't keep it from you.

She goes in the tent hurriedly to hide the fact that tears

have come into her eyes. The children pounce on the pot,

silently, too busy digging for the stew to speak.

INSIDE THE TENT they have all finished their stew already.

MA:

(bitterly)

I done fine! Now nobody got enough!

At the ROAD a new coupe drives off the highway and into the

camp and stops. It contains two men. One gets out.

A GROUP OF MEN are squatting in a half-circle, the usual

pattern for conversation, but they are silent now as their

eyes fix on the man approaching. He is a labor agent.

OUTSIDE THE JOAD TENT the men are looking in the direction

of the group. They start to walk toward it.

AT THE GROUP OF MEN: The agent, wearing a flat-brimmed Stetson

and with his pockets filled with pencils and dog-eared

booklets, looks down at the silent men. All of the men in

the camp are approaching slowly, silently. The women give

their anxious attention in the background. Among the men who

walk up is FLOYD, a grimly disappointed young man.

AGENT:

You men want to work?

PA:

Sure we wanta work. Where's it at?

AGENT:

Tulare County. Fruit's opening up.

Need a lot of pickers.

FLOYD:

You doin' the hirin'?

AGENT:

Well, I'm contracting the land.

FIRST MAN:

Whay you payin?

AGENT:

Well, can't tell exactly, yet. 'Bout

thirty cents, I guess.

FIRST MAN:

Why can't you tell? You took the

contrac', didn' you?

AGENT:

That's true. But it's keyed to the

price. Might be a little more, might

be a little less.

FLOYD:

(quietly)

All right, mister. I'll go. You just

show your license to contrack, an'

then you make out a order--where an'

when an' how much you gonna pay--an'

you sign it an' we'll go.

AGENT:

(ominously)

You trying to tell me how to run my

own business?

FLOYD:

'F we're workin' for you, it's our

business too. An' how do we know--

(pulling out a handbill)

--you ain't one a the guys that sent

these things out?

AGENT:

(tough)

Listen, Smart Guy. I'll run my

business my own way. I got work. If

you wanta take it, okay. If not,

just sit here, that's all.

The squatting men have risen one by one. Their faces are

expressionless because they simply don't know when one of

these calls is genuine or when it isn't. Floyd addresses

them.

FLOYD:

Twicet now I've fell for that line.

Maybe he needs a thousan' men. So he

get's five thousan' there, an' he'll

pay fifteen cents a hour. An' you

guys'll have to take it 'cause you'll

be hungry.

(Facing the agent)

'F he wants to hire men, let him

write it out an' say what he's gonna

pay. Ast to see his license. He ain't

allowed by law to contrack men without

a license.

AGENT:

(turning)

Joe!

The other man gets out of the COUPE. He wears riding breeches

and laced boots, carries a pistol and cartridge belt, and

there is a deputy sheriff's star on his brown shirt. He smiles

thinly and shifts his pistol holster as he starts toward the

group. THE MEN are watching the deputy approach.

FLOYD:

(angrily)

You see? If this guy was on the level,

would he bring a cop along?

DEPUTY:

(entering)

What's the trouble?

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