Pa called to them, “Come on, you, ’less you want to git left.”
They turned solemnly and walked to the truck. Ruthie looked once more at the gray reptile eggs in her hand, and then she threw them away. They climbed up the side of the truck. “His eyes was still open,” said Ruthie in a hushed tone.
But Winfield gloried in the scene. He said boldly, “His guts was just strowed all over—all over”—he was silent for a moment—“strowed—all—over,” he said, and then he rolled over quickly and vomited down the side of the truck. When he sat up again his eyes were watery and his nose running. “It ain’t like killin’ pigs,” he said in explanation.
Al had the hood of the Hudson up, and he checked the oil level. He brought a gallon can from the floor of the front seat and poured a quantity of cheap black oil into the pipe and checked the level again.
Tom came beside him. “Want I should take her a piece?” he asked.
“I ain’t tired,” said Al.
“Well, you didn’t get no sleep las’ night. I took a snooze this morning. Get up there on top. I’ll take her.”
“Awright,” Al said reluctantly. “But watch the oil gauge pretty close. Take her slow. An’ I been watchin’ for a short. Take a look a the needle now an’ then. ’F she jumps to discharge it’s a short. An’ take her slow, Tom. She’s overloaded.”
Tom laughed. “I’ll watch her,” he said. “You can res’ easy.”
The family piled on top of the truck again. Ma settled herself beside Granma in the seat, and Tom took his place and started the motor. “Sure is loose,” he said, and he put it in gear and pulled away down the highway.