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Chapter 8
Joadsidleduptothetruckbedandleanedagainstit.Andhisfatherlookedathimanddidnotseehim.Hisfathersetanothernailanddroveitin.Aflockofpigeonsstartedfromthedeckofthetankhouseandflewaroundandsettledagainandstruttedtotheedgetolookover;whitepigeonsandbluepigeonsandgrays,withiridescentwings.
Joadhookedhisfingersoverthelowestbarofthetruckside.Helookedupattheaging,grayingmanonthetruck.Hewethisthicklipswithhistongue,andhesaidsoftly,"Pa."
"Whatdoyouwant?"oldTommumbledaroundhismouthfulofnails.Heworeablack,dirtyslouchhatandablueworkshirtoverwhichwasabuttonlessvest;hisjeanswereheldupbyawideharness-leatherbeltwithabigsquarebrassbuckle,leatherandmetalpolishedfromyearsofwearing;andhisshoeswerecrackedandthesolesswollenandboat-shapedfromyearsofsunandwetanddust.Thesleevesofhisshirtweretightonhisforearms,helddownbythebulgingpowerfulmuscles.Stomachandhipswerelean,andlegs,short,heavy,andstrong.Hisface,squaredbyabristlingpepperandsaltbeard,wasalldrawndowntotheforcefulchin,achinthrustoutandbuiltoutbythestubblebeardwhichwasnotsograyedonthechin,andgaveweightandforcetoitsthrust.OveroldTom’sunwhiskeredcheekbonestheskinwasasbrownasmeerschaum,andwrinkledinraysaroundhiseye-cornersfromsquinting.Hiseyeswerebrown,black-coffeebrown,andhethrusthisheadforwardwhenhelookedatathing,forhisbrightdarkeyeswerefailing.
