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 boiled potatoes, and he’d take out every 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 kind of guy he was—clean.
Used to dress up Sundays even when he wasn’t going no place, put on a necktie even, and then sit 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.
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