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- Джон Стейнбек
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- Гроздья гнева
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Floyd
said
,
«
I
dunno
—
cops
,
maybe
.
»
The
car
door
opened
and
a
man
got
out
and
stood
beside
the
car
.
His
companion
remained
seated
.
Now
all
the
squatting
men
looked
at
the
newcomers
and
the
conversation
was
still
.
And
the
women
building
their
fires
looked
secretly
at
the
shiny
car
.
The
children
moved
closer
with
elaborate
circuitousness
,
edging
inward
in
long
curves
.
Floyd
put
down
his
wrench
.
Tom
stood
up
.
Al
wiped
his
hand
on
his
trousers
.
The
three
strolled
toward
the
Chevrolet
.
The
man
who
had
got
out
of
the
car
was
dressed
in
khaki
trousers
and
a
flannel
shirt
.
He
wore
a
flat
-
brimmed
Stetson
hat
.
A
sheaf
of
papers
was
held
in
his
shirt
pocket
by
a
little
fence
of
fountain
pens
and
yellow
pencils
;
and
from
his
hip
pocket
protruded
a
notebook
with
metal
covers
.
He
moved
to
one
of
the
groups
of
squatting
men
,
and
they
looked
up
at
him
,
suspicious
and
quiet
.
They
watched
him
and
did
not
move
;
the
whites
of
their
eyes
showed
beneath
the
irises
,
for
they
did
not
raise
their
heads
to
look
.
Tom
and
Al
and
Floyd
strolled
casually
near
.
The
man
said
,
«
You
men
want
to
work
?
»
Still
they
looked
quietly
,
suspiciously
.
And
men
from
all
over
the
camp
moved
near
.
One
of
the
squatting
men
spoke
at
last
.
«
Sure
we
wanta
work
.
Where
’
s
at
’
s
work
?
»
«
Tulare
County
.
Fruit
’
s
opening
up
.
Need
a
lot
of
pickers
.
»
Floyd
spoke
up
.
«
You
doin
’
the
hiring
?
»
«
Well
,
I
’
m
contracting
the
land
.
»
The
men
were
in
a
compact
group
now
.
An
overalled
man
took
off
his
black
hat
and
combed
back
his
long
black
hair
with
his
fingers
.
«
What
you
payin
’
?
»
he
asked
.
