You’ll kill him, the first thing you know.Lennie fairly scuttled out of the room.
Slim had not moved. His calm eyes followed Lennie out the door. “Jesus,” he said. “He’s jes’ like kid, ain’t he.
Sure he’s jes’ like a kid. There ain’t no more harm in him than a kid neither, except he’s so strong.
I bet he won’t come in here to sleep tonight. He’d sleep right alongside that box in the barn.
Well—let ‘im. He ain’t doin’ no harm out there.It was almost dark outside now.
Old Candy, the swamper, came in and went to his bunk, and behind him struggled his old dog.
“Hello, Slim. Hello, George. Didn’t neither of you play horseshoes?”
“I don’t like to play ever’ night,” said Slim. Candy went on, “Either you guys got a slug of whisky? I gotta gut ache.”
“I ain’t,” said Slim. “I’d drink it myself if I had, an’ I ain’t got a gut ache neither.”
“Gotta bad gut ache,” said Candy. “Them God damn turnips give it to me. I knowed they was going to before I ever eat ‘em.”
The thick-bodied Carlson came in out of the darkening yard. He walked to the other end of the bunk house and turned on the second shaded light.
“Darker’n hell in here,” he said. “Jesus, how that nigger can pitch shoes.”
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