Free In Dubious Battle by John Steinbeck Page B

ahead, with its red light on and glancing along the blade of the semaphore. The brakeman was swinging a lantern back and forth. Over to the right the lonely, cold street lights of the town burned and put a pale glow in the sky. The air was cold now. A sharp, soundless wind blew.
    “I’m hungry,” Jim said. “Got any ideas about eating, Mac?”
    “Wait till we get to a light. I think I’ve got a goodprospect on my list.” He hurried away into the darkness, and Jim trotted after him. They came immediately into the edge of the town, and on a corner, under one of the lights, Mac stopped and pulled out a sheet of paper. “We got a nice town here, Jim,” he said. “Nearly fifty active sympathizers. Guys you can rely on to give you a lift. Here’s the guy I want. Alfred Anderson, Townsend, between Fourth and Fifth, Al’s Lunch Wagon. What do you think of that?”
    “What’s that paper?” Jim asked.
    “Why, it’s a list of all the people in town we know to be sympathizers. With this list we can get anything from knitted wristlets to a box of shotgun shells. But Al’s Lunch Wagon—lunch wagons generally stay open all night, Jim. Townsend, that’ll be one of the main streets. Come on, but let me work this.”
    They turned soon into the main street, and walked down its length until, near the end, where stores were vacant and lots occurred between buildings, they found Al’s Lunch Wagon, a cozy looking little car with red stained-glass in the windows, and a sliding door. Through the window they could see that two customers sat on the stools, and that a fat young man with heavy, white, bare arms hovered behind the counter.
    “Pie and coffee guys,” Mac said. “Let’s wait till they finish.”
    While they loitered, a policeman approached, and eyed them. Mac said loudly, “I don’t want to go home till I get a piece of pie.”
    Jim reacted quickly. “Come on home,” he said. “I’m too sleepy to eat.”
    The policeman passed them. He seemed almost to sniffat them as he went by. Mac said quietly, “He thinks we’re trying to get up our nerve to stick up the wagon.” The policeman turned and walked back toward them. Mac said, “Well, go home then, if you want. I’m going to get a piece of pie.” He climbed the three steps and slid open the door of the lunch wagon.
    The proprietor smiled at them. “’Evening, gents,” he said. “Turning on cold, ain’t it?”
    “Sure is,” said Mac. He walked to the end of the counter farthest from the other two customers and sat down. A shadow of annoyance crossed Al’s face.
    “Now listen, you guys,” he said. “If you got no money you can have a cup of coffee and a couple of sinkers. But don’t eat up a dinner on me and then tell me to call a cop. Jesus, I’m being busted by pan-handlers.”
    Mac laughed shortly. “Coffee and sinkers will be just elegant, Alfred,” he said.
    The proprietor glanced suspiciously at him and took off his high white cook’s hat, and scratched his head.
    The customers drained their cups together. One of them asked, “Do you always feed bums, Al?”
    “Well, Jesus, what can you do? If a guy wants a cup of coffee on a cold night, you can’t let him down because he hasn’t got a lousy nickel.”
    The customer chuckled. “Well, twenty cups of coffee is a dollar, Al. You’ll fold up if you go about it that way. Coming, Will?” The two got up and paid their checks and walked out.
    Al came around the corner and followed them to the door and slid it more tightly closed. Then he walked back down the counter and leaned over toward Mac. “Who are you guys?” he demanded. He had fat, comfortable whitearms, bare to the elbows. He carried a damp cloth with which he wiped and wiped at the counter, with little circular movements. His manner of leaning close when he spoke made every speech seem secret.
    Mac winked solemnly, like a conspirator. “We’re sent down from the city on business,” he said.
    A red flush of excitement bloomed