“Jes’ usin’ it. Hones’, jes’ usin’ it.”
“They ain’t got the right! Four-five sheets is enough. What’s the matter’th ’em?”
The confessor bleated, “Skitters. All five of ’em. We been low on money. They et green grapes. They all five got the howlin’ skitters. Run out ever’ ten minutes.” She defended them, “But they ain’t stealin’ it.”
Jessie sighed. “You should a tol’,” she said. “You got to tell. Here’s Unit Four sufferin’ shame ’cause you never tol’. Anybody can git the skitters.”
The meek voice whined, “I jes’ can’t keep ’em from eatin’ them green grapes. An’ they’re a-gettin’ worse all a time.”
Ella Summers burst out, “The Aid. She oughta git the Aid.”
“Ella Summers,” Jessie said, “I’m a-tellin’ you for the las’ time, you ain’t the Chair.” She turned back to the raddled little woman.
“Ain’t you got no money, Mis’ Joyce?”
She looked ashamedly down. “No, but we might git work any time.”
“Now you hol’ up your head,” Jessie said. “That ain’t no crime. You jes’ waltz right over t’ the Weedpatch store an’ git you some groceries. The camp got twenty dollars’ credit there. You git yourself fi’ dollars’ worth. An’ you kin pay it back to the Central Committee when you git work. Mis’ Joyce, you knowed that,” she said sternly.