“I seen her give Slim the eye. Slim’s a jerkline skinner. Hell of a nice fella.”
“Slim don’t need to wear no high-heeled boots on a grain team. I seen her give Slim the eye. Curley never seen it.”
“An’ I seen her give Carlson the eye.” George pretended a lack of interest. “Looks like we was gonna have fun.”
The swamper stood up from his box. “Know what I think?” George did not answer.
Well, I think Curley’s married... a tart.” “He ain’t the first,” said George. “There’s plenty done that.
The old man moved toward the door, and his ancient dog lifted his head and peered about, and then got painfully to his feet to follow.
I gotta be settin' out the wash basins for the guys.
The teams'll be in before long. You guys gonna buck barley?
“Yeah.” “You won't tell Curley nothing I said?” “Hell no.”
“Well, you look her over, mister. You see if she ain't a tart.”
He stepped out the door into the brilliant sunshine.
George laid down his cards thoughtfully, turned his piles of three, and built four clubs on his ace pile.
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