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- Джон Стейнбек
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Tom
said
,
«
How
’
bout
this
fight
(
umph
!
)
at
the
dance
,
he
tol
’
about
(
umph
)
?
What
they
wanta
do
that
for
?
»
Timothy
followed
behind
Wilkie
,
and
Timothy
’
s
shovel
beveled
the
bottom
of
the
ditch
and
smoothed
it
ready
for
the
pipe
.
«
Seems
like
they
got
to
drive
us
,
"
Timothy
said
.
«
They
’
re
scairt
we
’
ll
organize
,
I
guess
.
An
’
maybe
they
’
re
right
.
This
here
camp
is
a
organization
.
People
there
look
out
for
theirselves
.
Got
the
nicest
strang
band
in
these
parts
.
Got
a
little
charge
account
in
the
store
for
folks
that
’
s
hungry
.
Fi
’
dollars
—
you
can
git
that
much
food
an
’
the
camp
’
ll
stan
’
good
.
We
ain
’
t
never
had
no
trouble
with
the
law
.
I
guess
the
big
farmers
is
scairt
of
that
.
Can
’
t
throw
us
in
jail
—
why
,
it
scares
’
em
.
Figger
maybe
if
we
can
gove
’
n
ourselves
,
maybe
we
’
ll
do
other
things
.
»
Tom
stepped
clear
of
the
ditch
and
wiped
the
sweat
out
of
his
eyes
.
«
You
hear
what
that
paper
said
’
bout
agitators
up
north
a
Bakersfiel
’
?
»
«
Sure
,
"
said
Wilkie
.
«
They
do
that
all
a
time
.
»
«
Well
,
I
was
there
.
They
wasn
’
t
no
agitators
.
What
they
call
reds
.
What
the
hell
is
these
reds
anyways
?
»
Timothy
scraped
a
little
hill
level
in
the
bottom
of
the
ditch
.
The
sun
made
his
white
bristle
beard
shine
.
«
They
’
s
a
lot
of
fellas
wanta
know
what
reds
is
.
»
He
laughed
.
«
One
of
our
boys
foun
’
out
.
»
He
patted
the
piled
earth
gently
with
his
shovel
.
«
Fella
named
Hines
—
got
’
bout
thirty
thousand
acres
,
peaches
and
grapes
—
got
a
cannery
an
’
a
winery
.
Well
,
he
’
s
all
a
time
talkin
’
about
’
them
goddamn
reds
.
’
’
Goddamn
reds
is
drivin
’
the
country
to
ruin
,
’
he
says
,
an
’
’
We
got
to
drive
these
here
red
bastards
out
.
’
Well
,
they
were
a
young
fella
jus
’
come
out
west
here
,
an
’
he
’
s
listenin
’
one
day
.
He
kinda
scratched
his
head
an
’
he
says
,
’
Mr
.
Hines
,
I
ain
’
t
been
here
long
.
What
is
these
goddamn
reds
?
’
Well
,
sir
,
Hines
says
,
’
A
red
is
any
son
-
of
-
a
-
bitch
that
wants
thirty
cents
an
hour
when
we
’
re
payin
’
twenty
-
five
!
’
Well
,
this
young
fella
he
thinks
about
her
,
an
’
he
scratches
his
head
,
an
’
he
says
,
’
Well
,
Jesus
,
Mr
.
Hines
.
I
ain
’
t
a
son
-
of
-
a
-
bitch
,
but
if
that
’
s
what
a
red
is
—
why
,
I
want
thirty
cents
an
hour
.
Ever
’
body
does
.
Hell
,
Mr
.
Hines
,
we
’
re
all
reds
.
’
"
Timothy
drove
his
shovel
along
the
ditch
bottom
,
and
the
solid
earth
shone
where
the
shovel
cut
it
.
Tom
laughed
.
«
Me
too
,
I
guess
.
»
His
pick
arced
up
and
drove
down
,
and
the
earth
cracked
under
it
.
The
sweat
rolled
down
his
forehead
and
down
the
sides
of
his
nose
,
and
it
glistened
on
his
neck
.
«
Damn
it
,
"
he
said
,
«
a
pick
is
a
nice
tool
(
umph
)
,
if
you
don
’
fight
it
(
umph
)
.
You
an
’
the
pick
(
umph
)
workin
’
together
(
umph
)
.
»
In
line
,
the
three
men
worked
,
and
the
ditch
inched
along
,
and
the
sun
shone
hotly
down
on
them
in
the
growing
morning
.
When
Tom
left
her
,
Ruthie
gazed
in
at
the
door
of
the
sanitary
unit
for
a
while
.
Her
courage
was
not
strong
without
Winfield
to
boast
for
.
She
put
a
bare
foot
in
on
the
concrete
floor
,
and
then
withdrew
it
.
Down
the
line
a
woman
came
out
of
a
tent
and
started
a
fire
in
a
tin
camp
stove
.
