"He was not over 30. His eyes were very dark brown and there was a hint of brown pigment in his eyeballs. His cheekbones were high and wide, and strong, deep lines cut down his cheeks in curves beside his mouth. His upper lip was long and, since his teeth protruded, the lips stretched to cover them, for this man kept his lips closed. His hands were hard with broad fingers and nails as thick and ridged as little clam shells. The space between thumb and forefinger and the hams of his hands were shiny with callus. The man's clothes were new--all of them--cheap and new. His grey cap was so new that the visor was still stiff and the button still on, not shapeless and bulged as it would be when it had served for a while all the various purposes of a cap: carrying sack, towel, handkerchief. His suit was of cheap grey hard cloth and so new that there were creases in the trousers. His blue chambray shirt was stiff and smooth with filler. The coat was too big, the trousers too short, for he was a tall man, the coat's shoulder peaks hung down on his arms and, even then, the sleeves were to short and the front of the coat flapped loosely over his stomach. He wore a pair of new, tan shoes of the kind called "Army Last," hobnailed and with half circles like horseshoes to protect the edges of the heels from wear" (Chapter 2).
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"I'd do what I done again. i killed a guy in a fight. We was drunk at a dance. He got a knife in me, and I killed him with a shovel that was layin' there. Knocked his head plum to squash" (Chapter 4).
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Tom sighed. "I'm a-gettin' tired, Ma. How 'bout makin' me mad?"
"You got more sense, Tom. I don't need to make you mad. I got to lean on you. Them others--they're kinda strangers, all but you. You won't give up, Tom."
The job fell on him. "I don' like it," he said. I wanta go out like Al. An' I wanta get mad like Pa, an' I wanta get drunk like Uncle John."
Ma shook her head. "You can't, Tom. I know. I knowed from the time you was a little fella. You can't. They's some folks that's just theirself an' nothin' more. There's Al--he's jus' a young fella after a girl. You wasn't never like that, Tom."
"Sure I was," said Tom. "Still am."
""No you ain't. Ever'thing you do is more'n you. When they sent you up to prison I knowed it. You're spoke for."
(Chapter 26, p. 353).
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...Tom got into the dirver's seat and stepped on the starter. It buzzed a little, and then stopped.
"Goddamn you, Al!" Tom cried. "You let the battery run down."
Al blustered, "How the hell was I gonna keep her up if I ain't got no gas to run her?"
Tom chuckled suddenly. "Well I don' know how, but it's your fault. You got to crank her."
"I tell you it ain't my fault."
Tom got out and found the crank under the seat. "It's my fault," he said.
(Chapter 26, p. 360)
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A snake wriggled across the warm highway. Al zipped over and ran it down and came back to his own lane.
"Gopher snake," said Tom. "You aughtn't to done that."
"I hate 'em," said Al gaily. "Hate all kinds. Give me the stomach-quake."
(Chapter 26, p. 365)
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They sat silent in the coal-black cave of vines. Ma said, "How'm I gonna know 'bout you? They might kill ya an' I wouldn' know. They might hurt ya. How'm I gonna know?"
Tom laughed uneasily, "Well, maybe like Casy says, a fella ain't got a soul of his own, but a piece of a big one--an' then-----"
"Then what, Tom?"
"Then it don't matter. I'll be aroun' in the dark. I'll be ever'where--wherever you look Wherever they's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Whenever they's a cop beatin' a guy, I'll be there. If Casy knowed, why, I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad an'--I'll be the way kids laugh when they're hungry an' they know supper's ready. An' when our folks eat the stuff they raise an' live in the houses they build--why I'll be there. See? God, I'm talkin' like Casy. Comes of thinkin' about him so much. Seems like I can see him sometimes."
"I don't understan'," Ma said. "I don't really know."
"Me neither," said Tom. "It's just been stuff I been thinkin' about."
(Chapter 28, p. 419-20)