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- Джон Стейнбек
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- Гроздья гнева
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- Стр. 516/563
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«
They
’
ll
be
trouble
,
"
said
Ma
.
«
Sure
.
I
know
.
Little
fella
like
me
can
’
t
do
anything
.
The
Association
sets
the
rate
,
and
we
got
to
mind
.
If
we
don
’
t
—
we
ain
’
t
got
a
farm
.
Little
fella
gets
crowded
all
the
time
.
»
They
came
to
the
camp
.
«
We
’
ll
be
there
,
"
Ma
said
.
«
Not
much
pickin
’
lef
’
.
»
She
went
to
the
end
boxcar
and
climbed
the
cleated
walk
.
The
low
light
of
the
lantern
made
gloomy
shadows
in
the
car
.
Pa
and
Uncle
John
and
an
elderly
man
squatted
against
the
car
wall
.
«
Hello
,
"
Ma
said
.
«
Evenin
’
,
Mr
.
Wainwright
.
»
He
raised
a
delicately
chiseled
face
.
His
eyes
were
deep
under
the
ridges
of
his
brows
.
His
hair
was
blue
-
white
and
fine
.
A
patina
of
silver
beard
covered
his
jaws
and
chin
.
«
Evenin
’
,
ma
’
am
,
"
he
said
.
«
We
got
pickin
’
tomorra
,
"
Ma
observed
.
«
Mile
north
.
Twenty
acres
.
»
«
Better
take
the
truck
,
I
guess
,
"
Pa
said
.
«
Get
in
more
pickin
’
.
»
Wainwright
raised
his
head
eagerly
.
«
S
’
pose
we
can
pick
?
»
«
Why
,
sure
.
I
walked
a
piece
with
the
fella
.
He
was
comin
’
to
get
pickers
.
»
«
Cotton
’
s
nearly
gone
.
Purty
thin
,
these
here
seconds
.
Gonna
be
hard
to
make
a
wage
on
the
seconds
.
Got
her
pretty
clean
the
fust
time
.
»
«
Your
folks
could
maybe
ride
with
us
,
"
Ma
said
.
«
Split
the
gas
.
»
