• OF MICE AND

MEN

John Steinbeck

Copyright John Steinbeck, 1937.

Copyright renewed by John Steinbeck, 1965.

A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside

bank and runs deep and green. The water is warm too, for it has slipped

twinkling over the yellow sands in the sunlight before reaching the narrow pool.

On one side of the river the golden foothill slopes curve up to the strong and

rocky Gabilan Mountains, but on the valley side the water is lined with trees—

willows fresh and green with every spring, carrying in their lower leaf junctures

the debris of the winter’s flooding; and sycamores with mottled, white,

recumbent limbs and branches that arch over the pool. On the sandy bank under

the trees the leaves lie deep and so crisp that a lizard makes a great skittering if

he runs among them. Rabbits come out of the brush to sit on the sand in the

evening, and the damp flats are covered with the night tracks of ‘coons, and

with the spreadpads of dogs from the ranches, and with the split-wedge tracks of

deer that come to drink in the dark.

There is a path through the willows and among the sycamores, a path beaten

hard by boys coming down from the ranches to swim in the deep pool, and

beaten hard by tramps who come wearily down from the highway in the evening

to jungle-up near water. In front of the low horizontal limb of a giant sycamore

there is an ash pile made by many fires; the limb is worn smooth by men who

have sat on it.

Evening of a hot day started the little wind to moving among the leaves. The

shade climbed up the hills toward the top. On the sand banks the rabbits sat as

quietly as little gray sculptured stones. And then from the direction of the state

highway came the sound of footsteps on crisp sycamore leaves. The rabbits

hurried noiselessly for cover. A stilted heron labored up into the air and

pounded down river. For a moment the place was lifeless, and then two men

emerged from the path and came into the opening by the green pool.

They had walked in single file down the path, and even in the open one

stayed behind the other. Both were dressed in denim trousers and in denim coats

with brass buttons. Both wore black, shapeless hats and both carried tight

blanket rolls slung over their shoulders. The first man was small and quick, dark

of face, with restless eyes and sharp, strong features. Every part of him was

defined: small, strong hands, slender arms, a thin and bony nose. Behind him

walked his opposite, a huge man, shapeless of face, with large, pale eyes, and

wide, sloping shoulders; and he walked heavily, dragging his feet a little, the

way a bear drags his paws. His arms did not swing at his sides, but hung

loosely.

The first man stopped short in the clearing, and the follower nearly ran over

him. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat-band with his forefinger and

snapped the moisture off. His huge companion dropped his blankets and flung

himself down and drank from the surface of the green pool; drank with long

gulps, snorting into the water like a horse. The small man stepped nervously

beside him.

“Lennie!” he said sharply. “Lennie, for God’ sakes don’t drink so much.”

Lennie continued to snort into the pool. The small man leaned over and shook

him by the shoulder. “Lennie. You gonna be sick like you was last night.”

Lennie dipped his whole head under, hat and all, and then he sat up on the

bank and his hat dripped down on his blue coat and ran down his back. “That’s

good,” he said. “You drink some, George. You take a good big drink.” He

smiled happily.

George unslung his bindle and dropped it gently on the bank. “I ain’t sure it’s

good water,” he said. “Looks kinda scummy.”

Lennie dabbled his big paw in the water and wiggled his fingers so the water

arose in little splashes; rings widened across the pool to the other side and came

back again. Lennie watched them go. “Look, George. Look what I done.”

George knelt beside the pool and drank from his hand with quick scoops.

“Tastes all right,” he admitted. “Don’t really seem to be running, though. You

never oughta drink water when it ain’t running, Lennie,” he said hopelessly.

“You’d drink out of a gutter if you was thirsty.” He threw a scoop of water into

his face and rubbed it about with his hand, under his chin and around the back

of his neck. Then he replaced his hat, pushed himself back from the river, drew

up his knees and embraced them. Lennie, who had been watching, imitated

George exactly. He pushed himself back, drew up his knees, embraced them,

looked over to George to see whether he had it just right. He pulled his hat

down a little more over his eyes, the way George’s hat was.

George stared morosely at the water. The rims of his eyes were red with sun

glare. He said angrily, “We could just as well of rode clear to the ranch if that

bastard bus driver knew what he was talkin’ about. ‘Jes’ a little stretch down the

highway,’ he says. ‘Jes’ a little stretch.’ God damn near four miles, that’s what

it was! Didn’t wanta stop at the ranch gate, that’s what. Too God damn lazy to

pull up. Wonder he isn’t too damn good to stop in Soledad at all. Kicks us out

and says ‘Jes’ a little stretch down the road.’ I bet it was more than four miles.

Damn hot day.”

Lennie looked timidly over to him. “George?”

“Yeah, what ya want?”

“Where we goin’, George?”

The little man jerked down the brim of his hat and scowled over at Lennie.

“So you forgot that awready, did you? I gotta tell you again, do I? Jesus Christ,

you’re a crazy bastard!”

“I forgot,” Lennie said softly. “I tried not to forget. Honest to God I did,

George.”

“O.K—O.K. I’ll tell ya again. I ain’t got nothing to do. Might jus’ as well

spen’ all my time tellin’ you things and then you forget ‘em, and I tell you

again.”

“Tried and tried,” said Lennie, “but it didn’t do no good. I remember about

the rabbits, George.”

“The hell with the rabbits. That’s all you ever can remember is them rabbits.

O.K.! Now you listen and this time you got to remember so we don’t get in no

trouble. You remember settin’ in that gutter on Howard Street and watchin’ that

blackboard?”

Lennie’s face broke into a delighted smile. “Why sure, George. I remember

that . . . . but . . . . what’d we do then? I remember some girls come by and you

says . . . . you says . . . .”

“The hell with what I says. You remember about us goin’ in to Murray and

Ready’s, and they give us work cards and bus tickets?”

“Oh, sure, George. I remember that now.” His hands went quickly into his

side coat pockets. He said gently, “George . . . . I ain’t got mine. I musta lost it.”

He looked down at the ground in despair.

“You never had none, you crazy bastard. I got both of ‘em here. Think I’d let

you carry your own work card?”

Lennie grinned with relief. “I . . . . I thought I put it in my side pocket.” His

hand went into the pocket again.

George looked sharply at him. “What’d you take outa that pocket?”

“Ain’t a thing in my pocket,” Lennie said cleverly.

“I know there ain’t. You got it in your hand. What you got in your hand—

hidin’ it?”

“I ain’t got nothin’, George. Honest.”

“Come on, give it here.”

Lennie held his closed hand away from George’s direction. “It’s on’y a

mouse, George.”

“A mouse? A live mouse?”

“Uh-uh. Jus’ a dead mouse, George. I didn’t kill it. Honest! I found it. I

found it dead.”

“Give it here!” said George.

“Aw, leave me have it, George.”

“Give it here!”

Lennie’s closed hand slowly obeyed. George took the mouse and threw it

across the pool to the other side, among the brush. “What you want of a dead

mouse, anyways?”

“I could pet it with my thumb while we walked along,” said Lennie.

“Well, you ain’t petting no mice while you walk with me. You remember

where we’re goin’ now?”

Lennie looked startled and then in embarrassment hid his face against his

knees. “I forgot again.”

“Jesus Christ,” George said resignedly. “Well—look, we’re gonna work on a

ranch like the one we come from up north.”

“Up north?”

“In Weed.”

“Oh, sure. I remember. In Weed.”

“That ranch we’re goin’ to is right down there about a quarter mile. We’re

gonna go in an’ see the boss. Now, look—I’ll give him the work tickets, but you

ain’t gonna say a word. You jus’ stand there and don’t say nothing. If he finds

out what a crazy bastard you are, we won’t get no job, but if he sees ya work

before he hears ya talk, we’re set. Ya got that?”

“Sure, George. Sure I got it.”

“O.K. Now when we go in to see the boss, what you gonna do?”

“I . . . . I . . . .” Lennie thought. His face grew tight with thought. “I . . . . ain’t

gonna say nothin’. Jus’ gonna stan’ there.”

“Good boy. That’s swell. You say that over two, three times so you sure

won’t forget it.”

Lennie droned to himself softly, “I ain’t gonna say nothin’ . . . . I ain’t gonna

say nothin’ . . . . I ain’t gonna say nothin’.”

“O.K.,” said George. “An’ you ain’t gonna do no bad things like you done in

Weed, neither.”

Lennie looked puzzled. “Like I done in Weed?”

“Oh, so ya forgot that too, did ya? Well, I ain’t gonna remind ya, fear ya do it

again.”

A light of understanding broke on Lennie’s face. “They run us outa Weed,”

he exploded triumphantly.

“Run us out, hell,” said George disgustedly. “We run. They was lookin’ for

us, but they didn’t catch us.”

Lennie giggled happily. “I didn’t forget that, you bet.”

George lay back on the sand and crossed his hands under his head, and

Lennie imitated him, raising his head to see whether he was doing it right.

“God, you’re a lot of trouble,” said George. “I could get along so easy and so

nice if I didn’t have you on my tail. I could live so easy and maybe have a girl.”

For a moment Lennie lay quiet, and then he said hopefully, “We gonna work

on a ranch, George.”

“Awright. You got that. But we’re gonna sleep here because I got a reason.”

The day was going fast now. Only the tops of the Gabilan Mountains flamed

with the light of the sun that had gone from the valley. A water snake slipped

along on the pool, its head held up like a little periscope. The reeds jerked

slightly in the current. Far off toward the highway a man shouted something,

and another man shouted back. The sycamore limbs rustled under a little wind

that died immediately.

“George—why ain’t we goin’ on to the ranch and get some supper? They got

supper at the ranch.”

George rolled on his side. “No reason at all for you. I like it here. Tomorra

we’re gonna go to work. I seen thrashin’ machines on the way down. That

means we’ll be buckin’ grain bags, bustin’ a gut. Tonight I’m gonna lay right

here and look up. I like it.”

Lennie got up on his knees and looked down at George. “Ain’t we gonna

have no supper?”

“Sure we are, if you gather up some dead willow sticks. I got three cans of

beans in my bindle. You get a fire ready. I’ll give you a match when you get the

sticks together. Then we’ll heat the beans and have supper.”

Lennie said, “I like beans with ketchup.”

“Well, we ain’t got no ketchup. You go get wood. An’ don’t you fool around.

It’ll be dark before long.”

Lennie lumbered to his feet and disappeared in the brush. George lay where

he was and whistled softly to himself. There were sounds of splashings down

the river in the direction Lennie had taken. George stopped whistling and

listened. “Poor bastard,” he said softly, and then went on whistling again.

In a moment Lennie came crashing back through the brush. He carried one

small willow stick in his hand. George sat up. “Awright,” he said brusquely.

“Gi’me that mouse!”

But Lennie made an elaborate pantomime of innocence. “What mouse,

George? I ain’t got no mouse.”

George held out his hand. “Come on. Give it to me. You ain’t puttin’ nothing

over.”

Lennie hesitated, backed away, looked wildly at the brush line as though he

contemplated running for his freedom. George said coldly, “You gonna give me

that mouse or do I have to sock you?”

“Give you what, George?”

“You know God damn well what. I want that mouse.”

Lennie reluctantly reached into his pocket. His voice broke a little. “I don’t

know why I can’t keep it. It ain’t nobody’s mouse. I didn’t steal it. I found it

lyin’ right beside the road.”

George’s hand remained outstretched imperiously. Slowly, like a terrier who

doesn’t want to bring a ball to its master, Lennie approached, drew back,

approached again. George snapped his fingers sharply, and at the sound Lennie

laid the mouse in his hand.

“I wasn’t doin’ nothing bad with it, George. Jus’ strokin’ it.”

George stood up and threw the mouse as far as he could into the darkening

brush, and then he stepped to the pool and washed his hands. “You crazy fool.

Don’t you think I could see your feet was wet where you went acrost the river to

get it?” He heard Lennie’s whimpering cry and wheeled about. “Blubberin’ like

a baby! Jesus Christ! A big guy like you.” Lennie’s lip quivered and tears

started in his eyes. “Aw, Lennie!” George put his hand on Lennie’s shoulder. “I

ain’t takin’ it away jus’ for meanness. That mouse ain’t fresh, Lennie; and

besides, you’ve broke it pettin’ it. You get another mouse that’s fresh and I’ll let

you keep it a little while.”

Lennie sat down on the ground and hung his head dejectedly. “I don’t know

where there is no other mouse. I remember a lady used to give ‘em to me—ever’

one she got. But that lady ain’t here.”

George scoffed. “Lady, huh? Don’t even remember who that lady was. That

was your own Aunt Clara. An’ she stopped givin’ ‘em to ya. You always killed

‘em.”

Lennie looked sadly up at him. “They was so little,” he said, apologetically.

“I’d pet ‘em, and pretty soon they bit my fingers and I pinched their heads a

little and then they was dead—because they was so little.

“I wisht we’d get the rabbits pretty soon, George. They ain’t so little.”

“The hell with the rabbits. An’ you ain’t to be trusted with no live mice.

Your Aunt Clara give you a rubber mouse and you wouldn’t have nothing to do

with it.”

“It wasn’t no good to pet,” said Lennie.

The flame of the sunset lifted from the mountaintops and dusk came into the

valley, and a half darkness came in among the willows and the sycamores. A big

carp rose to the surface of the pool, gulped air and then sank mysteriously into

the dark water again, leaving widening rings on the water. Overhead the leaves

whisked again and little puffs of willow cotton blew down and landed on the

pool’s surface.

“You gonna get that wood?” George demanded. “There’s plenty right up

against the back of that sycamore. Floodwater wood. Now you get it.”

Lennie went behind the tree and brought out a litter of dried leaves and

twigs. He threw them in a heap on the old ash pile and went back for more and

more. It was almost night now. A dove’s wings whistled over the water. George

walked to the fire pile and lighted the dry leaves. The flame cracked up among

the twigs and fell to work. George undid his bindle and brought out three cans

of beans. He stood them about the fire, close in against the blaze, but not quite

touching the flame.

“There’s enough beans for four men,” George said.

Lennie watched him from over the fire. He said patiently, “I like ‘em with

ketchup.”

“Well, we ain’t got any,” George exploded. “Whatever we ain’t got, that’s

what you want. God a’mighty, if I was alone I could live so easy. I could go get

a job an’ work, an’ no trouble. No mess at all, and when the end of the month

come I could take my fifty bucks and go into town and get whatever I want.

Why, I could stay in a cat house all night. I could eat any place I want, hotel or

any place, and order any damn thing I could think of. An’ I could do all that

every damn month. Get a gallon of whisky, or set in a pool room and play cards

or shoot pool.” Lennie knelt and looked over the fire at the angry George. And

Lennie’s face was drawn with terror. “An’ whatta I got,” George went on

furiously. “I got you! You can’t keep a job and you lose me ever’ job I get. Jus’

keep me shovin’ all over the country all the time. An’ that ain’t the worst. You

get in trouble. You do bad things and I got to get you out.” His voice rose nearly

to a shout. “You crazy son-of-a-bitch. You keep me in hot water all the time.”

He took on the elaborate manner of little girls when they are mimicking one

another. “Jus’ wanted to feel that girl’s dress—jus’ wanted to pet it like it was a

mouse—Well, how the hell did she know you jus’ wanted to feel her dress? She

jerks back and you hold on like it was a mouse. She yells and we got to hide in a

irrigation ditch all day with guys lookin’ for us, and we got to sneak out in the

dark and get outa the country. All the time somethin’ like that—all the time. I

wisht I could put you in a cage with about a million mice an’ let you have fun.”

His anger left him suddenly. He looked across the fire at Lennie’s anguished

face, and then he looked ashamedly at the flames.

It was quite dark now, but the fire lighted the trunks of the trees and the

curving branches overhead. Lennie crawled slowly and cautiously around the

fire until he was close to George. He sat back on his heels. George turned the

bean cans so that another side faced the fire. He pretended to be unaware of

Lennie so close beside him.

“George,” very softly. No answer. “George!”

“Whatta you want?”

“I was only foolin’, George. I don’t want no ketchup. I wouldn’t eat no

ketchup if it was right here beside me.”

“If it was here, you could have some.”

“But I wouldn’t eat none, George. I’d leave it all for you. You could cover

your beans with it and I wouldn’t touch none of it.”

George still stared morosely at the fire. “When I think of the swell time I

could have without you, I go nuts. I never get no peace.”

Lennie still knelt. He looked off into the darkness across the river. “George,

you want I should go away and leave you alone?”

“Where the hell could you go?”

“Well, I could. I could go off in the hills there. Some place I’d find a cave.”

“Yeah? How’d you eat? You ain’t got sense enough to find nothing to eat.”

“I’d find things, George. I don’t need no nice food with ketchup. I’d lay out

in the sun and nobody’d hurt me. An’ if I foun’ a mouse, I could keep it.

Nobody’d take it away from me.”

George looked quickly and searchingly at him. “I been mean, ain’t I?”

“If you don’ want me I can go off in the hills an’ find a cave. I can go away

any time.”

“No—look! I was jus’ foolin’, Lennie. ‘Cause I want you to stay with me.

Trouble with mice is you always kill ‘em.” He paused. “Tell you what I’ll do,

Lennie. First chance I get I’ll give you a pup. Maybe you wouldn’t kill it. That’d

be better than mice. And you could pet it harder.”

Lennie avoided the bait. He had sensed his advantage. “If you don’t want me,

you only jus’ got to say so, and I’ll go off in those hills right there—right up in

those hills and live by myself. An’ I won’t get no mice stole from me.”

George said, “I want you to stay with me, Lennie. Jesus Christ, somebody’d

shoot you for a coyote if you was by yourself. No, you stay with me. Your Aunt

Clara wouldn’t like you running off by yourself, even if she is dead.”

Lennie spoke craftily, “Tell me—like you done before.”

“Tell you what?”

“About the rabbits.”

George snapped, “You ain’t gonna put nothing over on me.”

Lennie pleaded, “Come on, George. Tell me. Please, George. Like you done

before.”

“You get a kick outa that, don’t you? Awright, I’ll tell you, and then we’ll eat

our supper . . . .”

George’s voice became deeper. He repeated his words rhythmically as

though he had said them many times before. “Guys like us, that work on

ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world. They got no fambly. They don’t

belong no place. They come to a ranch an’ work up a stake and then they go into

town and blow their stake, and the first thing you know they’re poundin’ their

tail on some other ranch. They ain’t got nothing to look ahead to.”

Lennie was delighted. “That’s it—that’s it. Now tell how it is with us.”

George went on. “With us it ain’t like that. We got a future. We got

somebody to talk to that gives a damn about us. We don’t have to sit-in no bar

room blowin’ in our jack jus’ because we got no place else to go. If them other

guys gets in jail they can rot for all anybody gives a damn. But not us.”

Lennie broke in. “But not us! An’ why? Because . . . . because I got you to

look after me, and you got me to look after you, and that’s why.” He laughed

delightedly. “Go on now, George!”

“You got it by heart. You can do it yourself.”

“No, you. I forget some a’ the things. Tell about how it’s gonna be.”

“O.K. Someday—we’re gonna get the jack together and we’re gonna have a

little house and a couple of acres an’ a cow and some pigs and—”

“An’ live off the fatta the lan’,” Lennie shouted. “An’ have rabbits. Go on,

George! Tell about what we’re gonna have in the garden and about the rabbits

in the cages and about the rain in the winter and the stove, and how thick the

cream is on the milk like you can hardly cut it. Tell about that, George.”

“Why’n’t you do it yourself? You know all of it.”

“No . . . . you tell it. It ain’t the same if I tell it. Go on . . . . George. How I

get to tend the rabbits.”

“Well,” said George, “we’ll have a big vegetable patch and a rabbit hutch

and chickens. And when it rains in the winter, we’ll just say the hell with goin’

to work, and we’ll build up a fire in the stove and set around it an’ listen to the

rain comin’ down on the roof—Nuts!” He took out his pocket knife. “I ain’t got

time for no more.” He drove his knife through the top of one of the bean cans,

sawed out the top and passed the can to Lennie. Then he opened a second can.

From his side pocket he brought out two spoons and passed one of them to

Lennie.

They sat by the fire and filled their mouths with beans and chewed mightily.

A few beans slipped out of the side of Lennie’s mouth. George gestured with his

spoon. “What you gonna say tomorrow when the boss asks you questions?”

Lennie stopped chewing and swallowed. His face was concentrated. “I . . . . I

ain’t gonna . . . . say a word.”

“Good boy! That’s fine, Lennie! Maybe you’re gettin’ better. When we get

the coupla acres I can let you tend the rabbits all right. ‘Specially if you

remember as good as that.”

Lennie choked with pride. “I can remember,” he said.

George motioned with his spoon again. “Look, Lennie. I want you to look

around here. You can remember this place, can’t you? The ranch is about a

quarter mile up that way. Just follow the river?”

“Sure,” said Lennie. “I can remember this. Di’n’t I remember about not

gonna say a word?”

“’Course you did. Well, look. Lennie—if you jus’ happen to get in trouble

like you always done before, I want you to come right here an’ hide in the

brush.”

“Hide in the brush,” said Lennie slowly.

“Hide in the brush till I come for you. Can you remember that?”

“Sure I can, George. Hide in the brush till you come.”

“But you ain’t gonna get in no trouble, because if you do, I won’t let you

tend the rabbits.” He threw his empty bean can off into the brush.

“I won’t get in no trouble, George. I ain’t gonna say a word

“O.K. Bring your bindle over here by the fire. It’s gonna be nice sleepin’

here. Lookin’ up, and the leaves. Don’t build up no more fire. We’ll let her die

down.”

They made their beds on the sand, and as the blaze dropped from the fire the

sphere of light grew smaller; the curling branches disappeared and only a faint

glimmer showed where the tree trunks were. From the darkness Lennie called,

“George—you asleep?”

“No. Whatta you want?”

“Let’s have different color rabbits, George.”

“Sure we will,” George said sleepily. “Red and blue and green rabbits,

Lennie. Millions of ‘em.”

“Furry ones, George, like I seen in the fair in Sacramento.”

“Sure, furry ones.”

“’Cause I can jus’ as well go away, George, an’ live in a cave.”

“You can jus’ as well go to hell,” said George. “Shut up now.”

The red light dimmed on the coals. Up the hill from the river a coyote

yammered, and a dog answered from the other side of the stream.

The sycamore leaves whispered in a little night breeze.

T he bunk house was a long, rectangular building. Inside, the walls were

whitewashed and the floor unpainted. In three walls there were small, square

windows, and in the fourth, a solid door with a wooden latch. Against the walls

were eight bunks, five of them made up with blankets and the other three

showing their burlap ticking. Over each bunk there was nailed an apple box

with the opening forward so that it made two shelves for the personal

belongings of the occupant of the bunk. And these shelves were loaded with

little articles, soap and talcum powder, razors and those Western magazines

ranch men love to read and scoff at and secretly believe. And there were

medicines on the shelves, and little vials, combs; and from nails on the box

sides, a few neckties. Near one wall there was a black cast-iron stove, its

stovepipe going straight up through the ceiling. In the middle of the room stood

a big square table littered with playing cards, and around it were grouped boxes

for the players to sit on.

At about ten o’clock in the morning the sun threw a bright dust-laden bar

through one of the side windows, and in and out of the beam flies shot like

rushing stars.

The wooden latch raised. The door opened and a tall, stoop-shouldered old

man came in. He was dressed in blue jeans and he carried a big push-broom in

his left hand. Behind him came George, and behind George, Lennie.

“The boss was expectin’ you last night,” the old man said. “He was sore as

hell when you wasn’t here to go out this morning.” He pointed with his right

arm, and out of the sleeve came a round stick-like wrist, but no hand. “You can

have them two beds there,” he said, indicating two bunks near the stove.

George stepped over and threw his blankets down on the burlap sack of straw

that was a mattress. He looked into his box shelf and then picked a small yellow

can from it. “Say. What the hell’s this?”

“I don’t know,” said the old man.

“Says ‘positively kills lice, roaches and other scourges.’ What the hell kind

of bed you giving us, anyways. We don’t want no pants rabbits.”

The old swamper shifted his broom and held it between his elbow and his

side while he held out his hand for the can. He studied the label carefully. “Tell

you what—” he said finally, “last guy that had this bed was a blacksmith—hell

of a nice fella and as clean a guy as you want to meet. Used to wash his hands

even after he ate.”

“Then how come he got graybacks?” George was working up a slow anger.

Lennie put his bindle on the neighboring bunk and sat down. He watched

George with open mouth.

“Tell you what,” said the old swamper. “This here blacksmith—name of

Whitey—was the kind of guy that would put that stuff around even if there

wasn’t no bugs—just to make sure, see? Tell you what he used to do—At meals

he’d peel his boil’ potatoes, an’ he’d take out ever’ little spot, no matter what

kind, before he’d eat it. And if there was a red splotch on an egg, he’d scrape it

off. Finally quit about the food. That’s the kinda guy he was—clean. Used ta

dress up Sundays even when he wasn’t going no place, put on a necktie even,

and then set in the bunk house.”

“I ain’t so sure,” said George skeptically. “What did you say he quit for?”

The old man put the yellow can in his pocket, and he rubbed his bristly white

whiskers with his knuckles. “Why . . . . he . . . . just quit, the way a guy will.

Says it was the food. Just wanted to move. Didn’t give no other reason but the

food. Just says ‘gimme my time’ one night, the way any guy would.”

George lifted his tick and looked underneath it. He leaned over and inspected

the sacking closely. Immediately Lennie got up and did the same with his bed.

Finally George seemed satisfied. He unrolled his bindle and put things on the

shelf, his razor and bar of soap, his comb and bottle of pills, his liniment and

leather wristband. Then he made his bed up neatly with blankets. The old man

said, “I guess the boss’ll be out here in a minute. He was sure burned when you

wasn’t here this morning. Come right in when we was eatin’ breakfast and says,

‘Where the hell’s them new men?’ An’ he give the stable buck hell, too.”

George patted a wrinkle out of his bed, and sat down. “Give the stable buck

hell?” he asked.

“Sure. Ya see the stable buck’s a nigger.”

“Nigger, huh?”

“Yeah. Nice fella too. Got a crooked back where a horse kicked him. The

boss gives him hell when he’s mad. But the stable buck don’t give a damn about

that. He reads a lot. Got books in his room.”

“What kind of a guy is the boss?” George asked.

“Well, he’s a pretty nice fella. Gets pretty mad sometimes, but he’s pretty

nice. Tell ya what—know what he done Christmas? Brang a gallon of whisky

right in here and says, ‘Drink hearty, boys. Christmas comes but once a year.’”

“The hell he did! Whole gallon?”

“Yes sir. Jesus, we had fun. They let the nigger come in that night. Little

skinner name of Smitty took after the nigger. Done pretty good, too. The guys

wouldn’t let him use his feet, so the nigger got him. If he coulda used his feet,

Smitty says he woulda killed the nigger. The guys said on account of the

nigger’s got a crooked back, Smitty can’t use his feet.” He paused in relish of

the memory. “After that the guys went into Soledad and raised hell. I didn’t go

in there. I ain’t got the poop no more.”

Lennie was just finishing making his bed. The wooden latch raised again and

the door opened. A little stocky man stood in the open doorway. He wore blue

jean trousers, a flannel shirt, a black, unbuttoned vest and a black

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