“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, 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 coat.
His thumbs were stuck in his belt, on each side of a square steel buckle. On his head was a soiled brown Stetson hat,
and he wore high-heeled boots and spurs to prove he was not a laboring man.
The old swamper looked quickly at him, and then shuffled to the door rubbing his whiskers with his knuckles as he went.
“Them guys just come,” he said, and shuffled past the boss and out the door.
The boss stepped into the room with the short, quick steps of a fat-legged man.
“I wrote Murray and Ready I wanted two men this morning. You got your work slips?”
George reached into his pocket and produced the slips and handed them to the boss. “It wasn’t Murray and Ready’s fault.”
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