“Fi’ cents?” the wizened man cried. “Fi’ cents! They payin’ you fi’ cents?”
“Sure. We made a buck an’ a half.”
A heavy silence fell in the tent. Casy stared out the entrance, into the dark night. “Lookie, Tom,” he said at last. “We come to work there. They says it’s gonna be fi’ cents. There was a hell of a lot of us. We got there an’ they says they’re payin’ two an’ a half cents. A fella can’t even eat on that, an’ if he got kids—So we says we won’t take it. So they druv us off. An’ all the cops in the worl’ come down on us. Now they’re payin’ you five. When they bust this here strike—ya think they’ll pay five?”
“I dunno,” Tom said. “Payin’ five now.”
“Lookie,” said Casy. “We tried to camp together, an’ they druv us like pigs. Scattered us. Beat the hell outa fellas. Druv us like pigs. They run you in like pigs, too. We can’t las’ much longer. Some people ain’t et for two days. You goin’ back tonight?”
“Aim to,” said Tom.
“Well—tell the folks in there how it is, Tom. Tell ’em they’re starvin’ us an’ stabbin’ theirself in the back. ’Cause sure as cowflops she’ll drop to two an’ a half jus’ as soon as they clear us out.”
“I’ll tell ’em,” said Tom. “I don’ know how. Never seen so many guys with guns. Don’ know if they’ll even let a fella talk. An’ folks don’ pass no time of day. They jus’ hang down their heads an’ won’t even give a fella a howdy.”
“Try an’ tell ’em, Tom. They’ll get two an’ a half, jus’ the minute we’re gone. You know what two an’ a half is—that’s one ton of peaches picked an’ carried for a dollar.” He dropped his head. “No—you can’t do it. You can’t get your food for that. Can’t eat for that.”
“I’ll try to get to tell the folks.”
“How’s your ma?”
“Purty good. She liked that gov’ment camp. Baths an’ hot water.”
“Yeah—I heard.”
“It was pretty nice there. Couldn’find no work, though. Had a leave.”
“I’d like to go to one,” said Casy. “Like to see it. Fella says they ain’t no cops.”
“Folks is their own cops.”
Casy looked up excitedly. “An’ was they any trouble? Fightin’, stealin’, drinkin’?”
“No,” said Tom.
“Well, if a fella went bad—what then? What’d they do?”
“Put ’im outa the camp.”
“But they wasn’ many?”
“Hell, no,” said Tom. “We was there a month, an’ on’y one.”
Casy’s eyes shone with excitement. He turned to the other men. “Ya see?” he cried. “I tol’ you. Cops cause more trouble than they stop. Look, Tom. Try an’ get the folks in there to come on out. They can do it in a couple days. Them peaches is ripe. Tell ’em.”
“They won’t,” said Tom. “They’re a-gettin’ five, an’ they don’ give a damn about nothin’ else.”
“But jus’ the minute they ain’t strikebreakin’ they won’t get no five.”
“I don’ think they’ll swalla that. Five they’re a-gettin’. Tha’s all they care about.”
“Well, tell ’em anyways.”
“Pa wouldn’ do it,” Tom said. “I know ’im. He’d say it wasn’t none of his business.”
“Yes,” Casy said disconsolately. “I guess that’s right. Have to take a beatin’ ’fore he’ll know.”
“We was outa food,” Tom said. “Tonight we had meat. Not much, but we had it. Think Pa’s gonna give up his meat on account a other fellas? An’ Rosasharn oughta get milk. Think Ma’s gonna wanta starve that baby jus’ ’cause a bunch a fellas is yellin’ outside a gate?”
Casy said sadly, “I wisht they could see it. I wisht they could see the on’y way they can depen’ on their meat—Oh, the hell! Get tar’d sometimes. God-awful tar’d. I knowed a fella. Brang ’im in while I was in the jail house. Been tryin’ to start a union . Got one started. An’ then them vigilantes bust it up. An’ know what? Them very folks he been tryin’ to help tossed him out. Wouldn’ have nothin’ to do with ’im. Scared they’d get saw in his comp’ny. Says, ‘Git out. You’re a danger on us.’ Well, sir, it hurt his feelin’s purty bad. But then he says, ‘It ain’t so bad if you know.’ He says, ‘French Revolution—all them fellas that figgered her out got their heads chopped off. Always that way,’ he says. ‘Jus’ as natural as rain. You didn’ do it for fun no way. Doin’ it ’cause you have to. ’Cause it’s you. Look a Washington,’ he says. ‘Fit the Revolution, an’ after, them sons-a-bitches turned on him. An’ Lincoln the same. Same folks yellin’ to kill ’em. Natural as rain.”’