“George knows what he’s about. Jus’ talks, an’ you don’t understand nothing.” He leaned forward excitedly.
“This is just a nigger talkin’, an’ a busted-back nigger. So it don’t mean nothing, see? You couldn’t remember it anyways.”
“I seen it over an’ over—a guy talkin’ to another guy and it don’t make no difference if he don’t hear or understand.”
“The thing is, they’re talkin’, or they’re settin’ still not talkin’. It don’t make no difference, no difference.”
His excitement had increased until he pounded his knee with his hand. “George can tell you screwy things, and it don’t matter.”
“It’s just the talking. It’s just bein’ with another guy. That’s all.” He paused. His voice grew soft and persuasive.
“S’pose George don’t come back no more. S’pose he took a powder and just ain’t coming back. What’ll you do then?”
Lennie’s attention came gradually to what had been said. “What?” he demanded.
“I said s’pose George went into town tonight and you never heard of him no more.”
Crooks pressed forward some kind of private victory. “Just s’pose that,” he repeated.
“He won’t do it,” Lennie cried. “George wouldn’t do nothing like that. I been with George a long time. He’ll come back tonight—”
But the doubt was too much for him. “Don’t you think he will?” Crooks’ face lighted with pleasure in his torture.
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