“You’re out early, Pa,” the young man said as they went by. “Yep, yep. Got to make up my rent.”
“Rent, hell!” the young man said. “He was drunk last Sat’dy night.
Sung in his tent all night. Committee give him work for it.” They walked along the edge of the oiled road; a row of walnut trees grew beside the way. The sun shoved its edge over the mountains.
Tom said, “Seems funny. I’ve et your food, an’ I ain’t tol’ you my name—nor you ain’t mentioned yours. I’m Tom Joad.”
The older man looked at him, and then he smiled a little. “You ain’t been out here long?”
“Hell, no! Jus’ a couple days.”
“I knowed it. Funny, you git outa the habit a mentionin’ your name. They’s so goddamn many. Jist fellas. Well, sir—I’m Timothy Wallace, an’ this here’s my boy Wilkie.”
“Proud to know ya,” Tom said. “You been out here long?”
“Ten months,” Wilkie said. “Got here right on the tail a the floods las’ year. Jesus! We had a time, a time! Goddamn near starve’ to death.” Their feet rattled on the oiled road. A truckload of men went by, and each man was sunk into himself. Each man braced himself in the truck bed and scowled down.
“Goin’ out for the Gas Company,” Timothy said. “They got a nice job of it.”