Candy repeated sullenly, “Got it caught in a machine.”
“Awright,” she said contemptuously. “Awright, cover 'im up if ya wanta. Whatta I care?”
“You bindle bums think you're so damn good. Whatta ya think I am, a kid? I tell ya I could of went with shows.”
“Not jus' one, neither. An' a guy tol' me he could put me in pitchers...” She was breathless with indignation.
“Sat'iday night. Ever'body out doin' som'pin'. Ever'body! An' what am I doin'?”
“Standin' here talkin' to a bunch of bindle stiffs—a nigger an' a dum-dum and a lousy ol' sheep—an' likin' it because they ain't nobody else.”
Lennie watched her, his mouth half open. Crooks had retired into the terrible protective dignity of the Negro.
But a change came over old Candy. He stood up suddenly and knocked his nail keg over backward.
“I had enough,” he said angrily. “You ain't wanted here. We told you you ain't.”
“An' I tell ya, you got floozy idears about what us guys amounts to.”
“You ain't got sense enough in that chicken head to even see that we ain't stiffs.”
“S'pose you get us canned. S'pose you do. You think we'll hit the highway an' look for another lousy two-bit job like this.”
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