Authors: John Steinbeck
“He won’t last long,” Mac shouted.
“I hate to hit a dog,” said London. “Don’t mind cats. I killed three cats on the way here from Radcliffe.”
The car rattled on, going about thirty miles an hour. Sometimes two of the cylinders stopped firing, so that the engine jerked along until the missing two went back to work.
When they had gone about five miles, London slowed
down. “Road ought to be somewhere in here,” he said. A little row of silver mail-boxes showed him where to turn into the dirt road. Over the road was a wooden arch bearing the words, “Hunter Bros. Fruit Co. S Brand Apples.” The car stuttered slowly along the road. Suddenly a man stepped into the road and held up his hand. London brought the Ford to a stop.
“You boys working here?” he man asked.
“No, we ain’t.”
“Well, we don’t need any more help. We’re all full up.”
London said, “We just come to see some friends of ours. We’re workin’ on the Talbot place.”
“Not bringing in liquor to sell?”
“Sure not.”
The man flashed a light into the back of the car and looked at the litter of iron and old inner tubes. The light snapped off. “O.K., boys. Don’t stay too long.”
London pushed down the pedal. “That smart son-of-a-bitch,” he growled. “There ain’t no nosey cops like private cops. Busy little rat.” He swung the car savagely around a turn and brought it to a stop behind a building very like the one from which they had come, a long, low, shed-like structure, partitioned into little rooms. London said, “They’re workin’ a hell of a big crew here. They got three bunk houses like this one.” He walked to the first door and knocked. A grunt came from inside, and heavy steps. The door opened a little. A fat woman with stringy hair looked out. London said gruffly, “Where’s Dakin puttin’ up?”
The woman reacted instantly to the authority of his
voice. “He’s the third door down, mister, him and his wife and a couple of kids.”
London said, “Thanks,” and turned away, leaving the woman with her mouth open to go on talking. She stuck out her head and watched the three men while London knocked on the third door. She didn’t go inside until Dakin’s door was closed again.
“Who was it?” a man asked from behind her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “A big guy. He wanted Dakin.”
Dakin was a thin-faced man with veiled, watchful eyes and an immobile mouth. His voice was a sharp monotone. “You old son-of-a-bitch,” he said. “Come on in. I ain’t seen you since we left Radcliffe.” He stepped back and let them in.
London said, “This here’s Doc and his friend, Dakin. Doc helped Lisa the other night. Maybe you heard about it.”
Dakin put out a long, pale hand to Mac. “Sure I heard. Couple of guys working right here was there. You’d think Lisa’d dropped an elephant the way they don’t talk about nothing else. This here’s the missus, Doc. You might take a look at them two kids, too, they’re strong.”
His wife stood up, a fine, big-bosomed woman with a full face, with little red spots of rouge on her cheeks, and with a gold upper bridge that flashed in the lamplight. “Glad to meet you boys,” she said in a husky voice. “You boys like a spot of coffee or a little shot?”
Dakin’s eyes warmed a trifle out of pride in her.
“Well, it was pretty cold coming over,” Mac said tentatively.
The gold bridge flashed. “Just what I thought. You’ll
do with a snort.” She set out a bottle of whisky and a jigger. “Pour your own, boys. You can’t pour it no higher’n the top.”
The bottle and the glass went around. Mrs. Dakin tossed hers off last. She corked the bottle and stood it in a small cupboard.
Three folding canvas chairs were in the room, and two canvas cots for the children. A big patent camp bed stood against the wall. Mac said, “You do yourself pretty nice, Mr. Dakin.”
“I got a light truck,” said Dakin. “I get some truckin’ to do now and then, and besides I can move my stuff. The missus is quick with her hands; in good times she can make money doin’ piece work.” Mrs. Dakin smiled at the praise.
Suddenly London dropped his social manner. “We want to go somewheres and talk,” he said.
“Well, why not here?”
“We want to talk some kind of private stuff.”
Dakin turned slowly to his wife. His voice was monotonous. “You and the kids better pay a call to Mrs. Schmidt, Alla.”
Her face showed her disappointment. Her lips pouted and closed over the gold. For a moment she looked questioningly at her husband, and he stared back with his cold eyes. His long white hands twitched at his sides. Suddenly Mrs. Dakin smiled widely. “You boys stay right here an’ do your talkin’,” she said. “I ought to been to see Mrs. Schmidt before. Henry, take your brother’s hand.” She put on a short jacket of rabbit’s fur and pushed at her golden hair. “You boys have a good time.” They heard her walk away and knock at a door down the line.
Dakin pulled up his trousers and sat down on the big bed and waved the others to the folding canvas chairs. His eyes were veiled and directionless, like the eyes of a boxer. “What’s on your mind, London?”
London scratched his cheek. “How you feel about that pay cut just when we was here already?”
Dakin’s tight mouth twitched. “How do you think I feel? I ain’t givin’ out no cheers.”
London moved forward on his chair. “Got any idears what to do?”
The veiled eyes sharpened a little bit. “No. You got any idears?”
“Ever think we might organize and get some action?” London glanced quickly sideways at Mac.
Dakin saw the glance. He motioned with his head to Mac and Jim. “Radicals?” he asked.
Mac laughed explosively. “Anybody that wants a living wage is a radical.”
Dakin stared at him for a moment. “I got nothing against radicals,” he said. “But get this straight. I ain’t doin’ no time for no kind of outfit. If you belong to anythin’, I don’t want to know about it. I got a wife and kids and a truck. I ain’t doin’ no stretch because my name’s on somebody’s books. Now, what’s on your mind, London?”
“Apples got to be picked, Dakin. S’pose we organize the men?”
Dakin’s eyes showed nothing except a light-grey threat. His toneless voice said, “All right. You organize the stiffs and get ’em all hopped up with a bunch of bull. They vote to call a strike. In twelve hours a train-load of scabs comes rollin’ in. Then what?”
London scratched his cheek again. “Then I guess we picket.”
Dakin took it up. “So then they pass a supervisors’ ordinance—no congregation, and they put a hundred deputies out with shot-guns.”
London looked around questioningly at Mac. His eyes asked Mac to answer for him. Mac seemed to be thinking hard. He said, “We just thought we’d see what you thought about it, Mr. Dakin. Suppose there’s three thousand men strikin’ from a steel mill and they picket? There’s a wire fence around the mill. The boss gives the wire a jolt of high voltage. They put guards at the gate. That’s soft. But how many deputy sheriffs you think it’ll take to guard a whole damn valley?”
Dakin’s eyes lighted for a moment, and veiled. “Shotguns,” he said. “S’pose we kick hell out of the scabs, and they start shootin’? This bunch of bindle-stiffs won’t stand no fire, and don’t think they will. Soon’s somebody sounds off with a ten-gauge, they go for the brush like rabbits. How about this picketin’?”
Jim’s eyes leaped from speaker to speaker. He broke in, “Most scabs’ll come off the job if you just talk to ’em.”
“And how about the rest?”
“Well,” said Mac, “a bunch of quick-movin’ men could fix that. I’m out in the trees pickin’, myself. The guys are sore as hell about this cut. And don’t forget, apples got to be picked. You can’t close down no orchard the way you do a steel mill.”
Dakin got up and went to the box-cupboard and poured himself a short drink. He motioned to the others with the bottle, but all three shook their heads. Dakin said, “They say we got a right to strike in this country, and then they
make laws against picketin’. All it amounts to is that we got a right to quit. I don’t like to get mixed up in nothing like this. I got a light truck.”
Jim said, “Where——,” found that his throat was dry, and coughed to clear it. “Where you going when we get the apples picked, Mr. Dakin?”
“Cotton,” said Dakin.
“Well, the ranches over there are bigger, even. If we take a cut here, the cotton people will cut deeper.”
Mac smiled encouragement and praise. “You know damn well they will,” he seconded. “They’ll do it every time; cut and cut until the men finally fight.”
Dakin set the whisky bottle gently down and walked to the big bed and seated himself. He looked at his long white hands, kept soft with gloves. He looked at the floor between his hands. “I don’t want no trouble,” he said. “The missus, the kids and me got along fine so far; but damn it, you’re right, we’ll get a cotton cut sure as hell. Why can’t they let things alone?”
Mac said, “I don’t see we got anything to do but organize.”
Dakin shook himself nervously. “I guess we got to. I don’t want to much. What you guys want me to do?”
London said, “Dakin, you can swing this bunch, and I can swing my bunch, maybe.”
Mac broke in, “You can’t swing nobody that doesn’t want to be swung. Dakin and London got to start talkin’, that’s all. Get the men talkin’. They’re mad already, but they ain’t talked it out. We got to get talk goin’ on all the other places, too. Let ’em talk tomorrow and the next day. Then we’ll call a meetin’. It’ll spread quick enough, with the guys this mad.”
Dakin said, “I just thought of somethin’. S’pose we go out on strike? We can’t camp here. They won’t let us camp on the county or the state roads. Where we goin’ to go?”
“I thought of that,” said Mac. “I got an idear, too. If there was a nice piece of private land, it’d be all right.”
“Maybe. But you know what they done in Washington. They kicked ’em out because they said it was a danger to public health. An’ then they burned down the shacks and tents.”
“I know all about that, Mr. Dakin. But s’pose there was a doctor takin’ care of all that? They couldn’t do much then.”
“You a real doctor?” Dakin said suspiciously.
“No, but I got a friend that is, and he’d prob’ly do it. I been thinkin’ about it, Mr. Dakin. I’ve read quite a bit about strikes.”
Dakin smiled frostily. “You done a hell of a lot more’n read about ’em,” he said. “You know too much. I don’t want to hear nothin’ about you. I don’t know nothin’.”
London turned to Mac. “Do you honest think we can lick this bunch, Doc?”
Mac said, “Listen, London, even if we lose we can maybe kick up enough hell so they won’t go cuttin’ the cotton wages. It’ll do that much good even if we lose.”
Dakin nodded his head slowly in agreement. “Well, I’ll start talkin’ the first thing in the morning. You’re right about the guys bein’ mad; they’re sore as hell, but they don’t know what to do about it.”
“We’ll give ’em an idear,” said Mac. “Try to contact the other ranches all you can, Mr. Dakin, won’t you?” He stood up. “I guess we better move along.” He held out his hand. “Glad I met you, Mr. Dakin.”
Dakin’s stiff lips parted, showing even, white false teeth. He said, “If I owned three thousand acres of apples, d’ you know what I’d do? I’d get behind a bush an’ when you went by, I’d blow your God damn head off. It’d save lots of trouble. But I don’t own nothing but a light truck and some camp stuff.”
“Good night, Mr. Dakin. Be seein’ you,” said Mac.
Jim and Mac went out. They heard London talking to Dakin. “These guys are O.K. They may be reds, but they’re good guys.” London came out and closed the door. A door down the building a bit opened and let out a square of light. Mrs. Dakin and the two kids walked toward them. “G’night, boys,” she said. “I was watchin’ to see when you come out.”
The Ford rattled and chuckled homeward, and pushed its nose up against the bunk house. Mac and Jim parted from London and went to their dark little room. Jim lay on the floor wrapped in a piece of carpet and a comforter. Mac leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. After a while he crushed out the spark. “Jim, you awake?”
“Sure.”
“That was a smart thing, Jim. She was beginning to drag when you brought in that thing about that cotton. That was a smart thing.”
“I want to help,” Jim cried. “God, Mac, this thing is singing all over me. I don’t want to sleep. I want to go right on helping.”
“You better go to sleep,” Mac said. “We’re going to do a lot of night work.”
THE wind swept down the rows, next morning, swaying the branches of the trees, and the windfalls dropped on the ground with soft thuds. Frost was in the wind, and between the gusts the curious stillness of autumn. The pickers scurried at their work, coats buttoned close over their chests. When the trucks went by between the rows, a wall of dust rolled out and went sailing down the wind.
The checker at the loading station wore a sheepskin coat, and when he was not tallying, thrust hands and book and pencil into his breast pocket and moved his feet restlessly.
Jim carried his bucket to the station. “Cold enough for you?”
“Not as cold as it will be if this wind doesn’t change. Freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” the checker said.
A sullen looking boy came up and dumped his bucket. His dark brows grew low to his eyes and his dark, stiff hair grew low on his forehead. His eyes were red and hot. He dumped his bucketful of apples into a box.
“Don’t bruise those apples,” the checker said. “Rot sets in on a bruise.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” The checker made a slashing mark with his pencil. “That bucket’s out. Try again.”
The smouldering eyes regarded him with hostility. “You sure got it comin’. An’ you’re goin’ to get it.”
The checker reddened with anger. “If you’re going to get smart, you’d better pad along out and hit the road.”
The boy’s mouth spat venomously. “We’ll get you; one of the first.” He looked knowingly at Jim. “O.K., pal?”
“You’d better get on to work,” Jim said quietly. “We can’t make wages if we don’t work.”
The boy pointed down the row. “I’m in that fourth tree, buddy,” he said, and moved away.
“What’s the gag?” the checker asked. “Everybody’s touchy this morning.”