Two cars loaded with disconsolate men drove down into the camp.
Floyd lifted his eyes, but he didn’t ask them about their luck. Their dusty faces were sad and resistant. The sun was sinking now, and the yellow sunlight fell on the Hooverville and on the willows behind it. The children began to come out of the tents, to wander about the camp. And from the tents the women came and built their little fires. The men gathered in squatting groups and talked together.
A new Chevrolet coupe turned off the highway and headed down into the camp. It pulled to the center of the camp, Tom said, “Who’s this? They don’t belong here.”
Floyd said, “I dunno—cops, maybe.”
The car door opened and a man got out and stood beside the car. His companion remained seated. Now all the squatting men looked at the newcomers and the conversation was still. And the women building their fires looked secretly at the shiny car. The children moved closer with elaborate circuitousness, edging inward in long curves.
Floyd put down his wrench. Tom stood up. Al wiped his hand on his trousers. The three strolled toward the Chevrolet. The man who had got out of the car was dressed in khaki trousers and a flannel shirt. He wore a flat-brimmed Stetson hat. A sheaf of papers was held in his shirt pocket by a little fence of fountain pens and yellow pencils; and from his hip pocket protruded a notebook with metal covers. He moved to one of the groups of squatting men, and they looked up at him, suspicious and quiet. They watched him and did not move; the whites of their eyes showed beneath the irises, for they did not raise their heads to look. Tom and Al and Floyd strolled casually near.
The man said, “You men want to work?” Still they looked quietly, suspiciously. And men from all over the camp moved near.
One of the squatting men spoke at last. “Sure we wanta work. Where’s at’s work?”
“Tulare County. Fruit’s opening up. Need a lot of pickers.”
Floyd spoke up. “You doin’ the hiring?”