Authors: John Steinbeck
Jim walked back to the checking station, where his bucket was. The sorting belts began rumbling in the plant. Truck motors roared as they were started. Among the trees the pickers were sullenly going back to work. A number of men were standing around the checking station
when Jim got his bucket. The checker did not speak to him then; but when Jim brought in his first full bucket, the question came. “Find out anything, Nolan?”
Jim leaned over the apple box and put his apples in it by hand. “I think it’s all going to blow over. Most of the guys don’t seem very mad.”
“Well, what makes you think that?”
Jim asked, “Did you hear what made ’em mad?”
“No, I didn’t. I thought it was the cut.”
“Hell, no,” said Jim. “A guy over on the Hunter place got a can of fish at the Hunter store that was bad. Made him sick. Well, you know how working stiffs are; they got sore, then the feeling spread over here. But I talked to some of the guys at noon. They’re getting over it.”
The checker asked, “You pretty sure that’s all it is?”
“Sure. How about my five bucks?”
“I’ll get it for you tomorrow.”
“Well, I want that five, and you said you’d see about a better job.”
“I will see about it. Let you know tomorrow.”
“I should’ve got the money first, before I told you,” Jim complained.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it.”
Jim walked off into the orchard. Just as he started to climb a ladder, a voice called from above him, “Look out for that ladder, she’s shaky.”
Jim saw old Dan standing in the tree. “By God, it’s the boy radical,” said old Dan.
Jim climbed up carefully. The rungs were loose in the ladder: “How’s things, Dan?” he asked as he hung up his bucket.
“Oh, pretty good. I ain’t feeling so good. Them cold beans lay like a flatiron in me all night.”
“Well, you ought to have a warm supper.”
“I was just too tired to build a fire. I’m getting on. I didn’t want to get up this morning. It was cold.”
“You should try one of the charity rackets,” said Jim.
“I don’t know. All the men is talkin’ strike, and there’s goin’ t’ be trouble. I’m tired. I don’t want no trouble to come now. What’ll I do if the men strike?”
“Why strike with them. Lead them.” Jim tried to spur him through pride. “The men would respect an old worker like you. You could lead the pickets.”
“I s’pose I could,” said Dan. He wiped his nose with a big hand and flicked his fingers. “I just don’t want to. It’s goin’ to get cold early this afternoon. I’d like a little hot soup for supper—hot as hell, with little bits of meat in it, and some hot toast to soak in it. I
love
poached eggs. When I used to come to town out of the woods, with money, sometimes I’d get me half a dozen eggs poached in milk, and let ’em soak into toast. And then I’d mash the eggs up into the toast, and I’d eat ’em. Sometimes eight eggs. I made good pay in the woods. I could just as easy of got two dozen poached eggs. I wish I had. Lots of butter, an’ all sprinkled with pepper.”
“Not so hard-boiled as you were yesterday, huh, Pop? Yesterday you could out-work anybody on the lot.”
The light of reminiscence went out of old Dan’s eyes. His scraggly chin thrust forward. “I still can out-work a bunch of lousy punks that spends their time talkin’.” He reached indignantly for the apples, fumbling over his head. One big, bony hand clung to a branch.
Jim watched him with amusement. “You’re just showing off, Pop.”
“Think I am? Well, try an’ keep up with me, then.”
“What’s the use of you an’ me racing, and then the orchard owner’s the only one that makes anything?”
Old Dan piled apples into his bucket. “You punks got something to learn yet. There’s more to work than you ever knew. Like a bunch of horses—you want more hay! Whining around for more hay. Want all the hay there is! You make a good man sick, that’s what you do, whining around.” His bucket was over-full. When he lifted it clear of the hook, five or six fat apples rolled out and bounced on the limbs and struck the ground under the tree. “Get out o’ my way, punk,” Dan cried. “Go on, get out o’ the way o’ that ladder.”
“O.K., Pop, but take your time. You won’t get a thing for rushing.” Jim stepped clear of the ladder-top and climbed out a limb. He hung his bucket and reached for an apple. Behind him he heard a splintering crash and a sullen thump. He looked around. Old Dan lay on his back on the ground under the tree. His open eyes looked stunned. His face was blue pale under the white stubble. Two rungs were stripped out of the ladder.
Jim cried, “That was a fall! Hurt yourself, Pop?”
The old man lay still. His eyes were full of a perplexed question. His mouth writhed, and he licked his lips.
Jim shinnied down the tree and knelt beside him. “Where are you hurt, Pop?”
Dan gasped, “I don’t know. I can’t move. I think I’ve bust my hip. It don’t hurt none, yet.”
Men were running toward them. Jim could see men dropping from the trees all around and running toward
them. The checker trotted over from his pile of boxes. The men crowded close. “Where’s he hurt?”
“How’d it happen?”
“Did he bust his leg?”
“He’s too old to be up a tree.”
The ring of men was thrust inward by more arriving. Jim heard the checker cry, “Let me through here.” The faces were dull and sullen and quiet.
Jim shouted, “Stand back, can’t you. Don’t crowd in.” The men shifted their feet. A little growl came from the back row. A voice shouted, “Look at that ladder.”
All heads went up with one movement, and all eyes looked to where the old loose rungs had splintered and torn out. Someone said, “That’s what they make us work on. Look at it!”
Jim could hear the thudding of feet as more men ran up in groups. He stood up and tried to push the ring apart. “Get back, you bastards. You’ll smother him.”
Old Dan had closed his eyes. His face was still and white with shock. On the outskirts of the mob the men began to shout, “Look at the ladder! That’s what they make us work on!” The growl of the men, and the growl of their anger arose. Their eyes were fierce. In a moment their vague unrest and anger centered and focused.
The checker still cried, “Let me through there.”
Suddenly a voice shrill with hysteria shouted, “You get out of here, you son-of-a-bitch.” There was a scuffle.
“Look out, Joe. Hold Joe. Don’t let him. Grab his feet.”
“Now, mister, scram, and go fast.”
Jim stood up. “You guys clear away. We got to get this poor fellow out of here.” The men seemed to awaken
from a sleep. The inner ring pushed violently outward. “Get a couple of sticks. We can make a stretcher out of a pair of coats. There, put the sticks through the arms. Now, button up the fronts.” Jim said, “Easy now, with him. I think his hip’s busted.” He looked down at Dan’s quiet, white face. “I guess he’s fainted. Now, easy.”
They lifted Dan on to the coat stretcher. “You two guys carry him,” Jim said. “Some of you clear a way.”
At least a hundred men had collected by this time. The men with the stretcher stepped out. Newcomers stood looking at the broken ladder. Over and over the words, “Look what they give us to use.”
Jim turned to a man who stood stupidly staring up into the tree. “What happened to the checker?”
“Huh? Oh, Joe Teague slugged him. Tried to kick his brains out. The guys held Joe. Joe went to pieces.”
“Damn good thing he didn’t kill him,” Jim said.
The band of men moved along behind the stretcher, and more were running in from all over the orchard. As they drew near the packing-plant the rumble of the sorting belt stopped. Men and women crowded out of the loading doors. A quiet had settled on the growing mob. The men walked stiffly, as men do at a funeral.
Mac came tearing around the corner of the packing-plant. He saw Jim and ran to him. “What is it? Come over here away from the mob.” The crowd of ominous, quiet people moved on after the stretcher. Newcomers were told in low tones, “The ladder. An old ladder.” The body of the mob went ahead of Mac and Jim.
“Now what happened? Tell me quick. We’ve got to move while they’re hot.”
“It was old Dan. He got smart about how strong he
was. Broke a couple of rungs out of a ladder and fell on his back. He thought he broke his hip.”
Mac said, “Well, it’s happened. I kind of expected it. It doesn’t take much when the guys feel this way. They’ll grab on anything. The old buzzard was worth something after all.”
“Worth something?” Jim asked.
“Sure. He tipped the thing off. We can use him now.” They walked quickly after the mob of men. The dust, raised by many feet, filled the air with a slow-blowing brown cloud. From the direction of the town the switch-engine crashed monotonously making up a train. On the outskirts of the mob women ran about, but the men were silent, trudging on after the stretcher, toward the bunk houses.
“Hurry up, Jim,” Mac cried. “We’ve got to rush.”
“Where we going?”
“We’ve got to find London first, and tell him how to work; then we’ve got to go in and send a telegram; and I want to go and see Al’s old man, right away. Look, there’s London over there.
“Hi, London.” Mac broke into a run, and Jim ran behind him. “It’s busted out, London,” Mac said breathlessly. “That old guy, Dan, fell out of a tree. It’s wide open, now.”
“Well, that’s what we want, ain’t it?” said London. He took off his hat and scratched his tonsure.
“The hell it is,” Mac broke in. “These guys’ll go nuts if we don’t take charge. Look, there goes your long lean buddy. Call him over.”
London cupped his hands. “Sam,” he yelled.
Jim saw that it was the same man who had sat by the
campfire in the jungle. Mac said, “Listen, London, and you, Sam. I’m going to tell you a lot of stuff quick, ‘cause I’ve got to get along. These guys are just as likely to pop in a few minutes. You go over, Sam, and tell ’em they ought to hold a meeting. And then you nominate London, here, for chairman. They’ll put him in all right. They’ll do almost anything. That’s all you got to do, Sam.” Mac picked up a handful of dirt and rubbed it between his palms. His feet stirred and kicked at the ground. “Now listen, London, soon’s you’re chairman, you tell ’em we got to have order. You give ’em a list of guys, about ten, and tell ’em to vote for those guys as a committee to figure things out. Got that?”
“Sure. I get you.”
“Now look—here’s the way to do it. If you want ’em to vote for something, you say ‘do you want to do it?’ and if you want to vote down somethin’, just say, ‘you don’t want to do this, do you?’ and they’ll vote no. Make ’em vote on everythin’,
everythin’,
see? They’re all ready for it.”
They looked toward the crowd at the bunk house. The men were still quiet, shifting about, never standing very long in a place, moving their arms; their faces were as relaxed as those of sleeping men.
London demanded, “Where you guys going now?”
“We’re going to see about that place for the crowd to stay when the thing busts open, that little farm. Oh, one other thing, you pick out a bunch of the craziest of these guys and send ’em over to the other ranches to talk. Get the men that are doin’ the most talkin’. You all set now?”
“All set,” said London.
“Well, let us use your Ford, will you? We got to cover ground.”
“Sure, take it, if you can run it} it’s got tricks.”
Mac turned to Sam. “All right, get over there. Just stand up on somethin’ and yell ‘Boys, we ought to hold a meetin’,’ and then yell, ’I move London for chairman.’ Get going, Sam. Come on, Jim.”
Sam trotted off toward the bunk houses, and London followed more slowly. Mac and Jim circled the buildings and went to the ancient Ford touring car. “Get in, Jim. You drive the gillopy.” A roar of voices came from the other side of the bunk house. Jim turned the key and retarded the spark lever. The coils buzzed like little rattlesnakes. Mac spun the crank and primed, and spun again. A second roar from the mob came over the house. Mac threw his shoulder into the work. The engine caught and its noise drowned the shouting of the men. Mac leaped into the car, yelling, “Well, I guess London’s our new chairman. Push ’er along.”
Jim backed around and drove out to the highway. The road was deserted. The green, heavy-laden trees threw their shadows’ weight sideways under the declining sun. The car rolled along, its pistons battering in the cylinders. “First to a telegraph office, and then to the post office,” Mac shouted.
They rolled into the town. Jim drove to the main street and parked in front of a Western Union office. “Post office is just a block up, see?” he said.
“Well, listen, Jim, while I send the wire, you go up and ask for mail for William Dowdy.”
In a few moments Jim came back with three letters. Mac was already sitting in the car. He ripped the letters
open and read them. “Hot-damn, listen. This one’s from Dick. He says Joy broke jail; they don’t know where he is. He was bein’ taken for a hearing and he smacked a cop and beat it. I just wired for more help, and for Doc Burton to take over the sanitation. Wait, I’ll crack ’er up. Let’s move along to Al’s lunch wagon.”
When Jim drew up in front of the lunch wagon, he could see Al through the windows, leaning over his deserted counter, staring out at the sidewalk. Al recognized them as they got out. He raised a fat arm at them.
Mac pushed open the sliding door. “Hi, Al. How’s business?”
Al’s eyes were bright with interest. “Been just fine,” he said. “Whole flock of guys from the orchards come in last night.”
“I been tellin’ ’em what a swell steak you put out,” said Mac.
“Nice of you. Like a bite yourself?”
“Sure,” said Mac. “We could even pay for it. Imagine us guys payin’ for anything.”
“Aw, this is just your cut,” said Al. “Kind of a commission for sending the guys in town.” He opened his icebox and patted out two hamburger steaks and slapped them down on the stove-top; and he arranged a wreath of chopped onions about each one. “How’s things coming out your way?” he asked.
Mac leaned confidentially over the counter. “Listen, Al. I know you’re a guy I can trust. We got you on the books. You been swell to us.”
Al blushed with pleasure at the praise. “Well, I’d be out with you guys if I didn’t have a business to keep up.
A man sees the way conditions is, and injustice, and things—and if he’s got any brains he comes to it.”