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- Джон Стейнбек
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«
I
’
m
a
-
prayin
’
.
You
got
to
keep
clear
,
Tom
.
The
fambly
’
s
breakin
’
up
.
You
got
to
keep
clear
.
»
«
I
’
ll
try
,
Ma
.
But
when
one
a
them
fat
asses
gets
to
workin
’
me
over
,
I
got
a
big
job
tryin
’
.
If
it
was
the
law
,
it
’
d
be
different
.
But
burnin
’
the
camp
ain
’
t
the
law
.
»
The
car
jolted
along
.
Ahead
,
a
little
row
of
red
lanterns
stretched
across
the
highway
.
«
Detour
,
I
guess
,
"
Tom
said
.
He
slowed
the
car
and
stopped
it
,
and
immediately
a
crowd
of
men
swarmed
about
the
truck
.
They
were
armed
with
pick
handles
and
shotguns
.
They
wore
trench
helmets
and
some
American
Legion
caps
.
One
man
leaned
in
the
window
,
and
the
warm
smell
of
whisky
preceded
him
.
«
Where
you
think
you
’
re
goin
’
?
»
He
thrust
a
red
face
near
to
Tom
’
s
face
.
Tom
stiffened
.
His
hand
crept
down
to
the
floor
and
felt
for
the
jack
handle
.
Ma
caught
his
arm
and
held
it
powerfully
.
Tom
said
,
«
Well
—
"
and
then
his
voice
took
on
a
servile
whine
.
«
We
’
re
strangers
here
,
"
he
said
.
«
We
heard
about
they
’
s
work
in
a
place
called
Tulare
.
»
«
Well
,
goddamn
it
,
you
’
re
goin
’
the
wrong
way
.
We
ain
’
t
gonna
have
no
goddamn
Okies
in
this
town
.
»
Tom
’
s
shoulders
and
arms
were
rigid
,
and
a
shiver
went
through
him
.
Ma
clung
to
his
arm
.
The
front
of
the
truck
was
surrounded
by
the
armed
men
.
Some
of
them
,
to
make
a
military
appearance
,
wore
tunics
and
Sam
Browne
belts
.
Tom
whined
,
«
Which
way
is
it
at
,
mister
?
»
«
You
turn
right
around
an
’
head
north
.
An
’
don
’
t
come
back
till
the
cotton
’
s
ready
.
»
