“This here’s her.”
“Oh!” said Tom. “We jus’ got in.”
Winfield and Ruthie came back, carrying a bucket of water between them.
Ma said, “Le’s get the camp up. I’m tuckered out. Maybe we can all rest.” Pa and Uncle John climbed up on the truck to unload the canvas and the beds.
Tom sauntered to the young man, and walked beside him back to the car he had been working on. The valve-grinding brace lay on the exposed block, and a little yellow can of valve-grinding compound was wedged on top of the vacuum tank. Tom asked, “What the hell was the matter’th that ol’ fella with the beard?”
The young man picked up his brace and went to work, twisting back and forth, grinding valve against valve seat. “The Mayor? Chris’ knows. I guess maybe he’s bull-simple.”
“What’s ’bull-simple’?”
“I guess cops push ’im aroun’ so much he’s still spinning.” Tom asked, “Why would they push a fella like that aroun’?”. The young man stopped his work and looked in Tom’s eyes. “Chris’ knows,” he said. “You jus’ come. Maybe you can figger her out. Some fellas says one thing, an’ some says another thing. But you jus’ camp in one place a little while, an’ you see how quick a deputy sheriff shoves you along.” He lifted a valve and smeared compound on the seat.
“But what the hell for?”
“I tell ya I don’ know. Some says they don’ want us to vote; keep us movin’ so we can’t vote. An’ some says so we can’t get on relief. An’ some says if we set in one place we’d get organized. I don’ know why. I on’y know we get rode all the time. You wait, you’ll see.”