It was Saturday night. Through the open door that led into the barn came the sound of moving horses,
of feet stirring, of teeth champing on hay, of the rattle of halter chains.
In the stable buck's room a small electric globe threw a meager yellow light.
Crooks sat on his bunk. His shirt was out of his jeans in back.
In one hand he held a bottle of liniment, and with the other he rubbed his spine.
Now and then he poured a few drops of the liniment into his pink-palmed hand and reached up under his shirt to rub again.
He flexed his muscles against his back and shivered.
Noiselessly Lennie appeared in the open doorway and stood there looking in, his big shoulders nearly filling the opening.
For a moment Crooks did not see him, but on raising his eyes he stiffened and a scowl came on his face.
His hand came out from under his shirt. Lennie smiled helplessly in an attempt to make friends.
Crooks said sharply, “You got no right to come in my room. This here’s my room. Nobody got any right in here but me.”
Lennie gulped and his smile grew more fawning. “I ain’t doing nothing,” he said.
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