Гроздья гнева

           "Theywasjusta-talkin’there,an’Ididn’tletonhe’smybrother.Ijus’stoodan’tookitin."

           Pasaid,"JesusChrist,Ihopethatain’ttrue!WeneedTom.I’llask’imaboutthat.Wegottroubleenoughwithouttheychasethehelloutofus.Ihopeitain’ttrue.Wegottotalkthatoutintheopen."

           UncleJohnsaid,"Tom,he’llknow."

           Theyfellsilentwhilethetruckbatteredalong.Theenginewasnoisy,fulloflittleclashings,andthebrakerodsbanged.Therewasawoodencreakingfromthewheels,andathinjetofsteamescapedthroughaholeinthetopoftheradiatorcap.Thetruckpulledahighwhirlingcolumnofreddustbehindit.Theyrumbledupthelastlittlerisewhilethesunwasstillhalf-faceabovethehorizon,andtheyboredownonthehouseasitdisappeared.Thebrakessquealedwhentheystopped,andthesoundprintedinAl’shead—noliningleft.

           RuthieandWinfieldclimbedyellingoverthesidewallsanddroppedtotheground.Theyshouted,"Whereishe?Where’sTom?"Andthentheysawhimstandingbesidethedoor,andtheystopped,embarrassed,andwalkedslowlytowardhimandlookedshylyathim.

           Andwhenhesaid,"Hello,howyoukidsdoin’?"theyrepliedsoftly,"Hello!Allright."Andtheystoodapartandwatchedhimsecretly,thegreatbrotherwhohadkilledamanandbeeninprison.Theyrememberedhowtheyhadplayedprisoninthechickencoopandfoughtfortherighttobeprisoner.