Of mice and men

Chapter 2

THE bunk house was a long, rectangular building. Inside, the walls were whitewashed and the floor unpainted. In three walls there were small, square windows, and in the fourth, a solid door with a wooden larch. Against the walls were eight bunks, five of them made up with blankets and the other three showing their burlap ticking. Over each bunk there was nailed an apple box with the opening forward so that it made two shelves for the personal belongings of the occupant of the bunk. And these shelves were loaded with little articles soap and talcum powder, razors and those Western magazines ranch men love to read and scoff at and secretly believe. And there were medicines on the shelves, and little vials, combs; and from nails on the box sides, a few neckties. Near one wall there was a black cast-iron stove, its stovepipe going straight up through the ceiling. In the middle of the room stood a big square table littered with playing cards, and around it were grouped boxes for the players to sit on.
At about ten o'clock in the morning the sun threw a bright dust- laden bar through one of the side windows, and in and out of the beam flies shot like rushing stars.
The wooden latch raised. The door opened and a tall, stoop- shouldered old man came in. He was dressed in blue jeans and he carried a big push broom in his left hand. Behind him came George, and behind George, Lennie.
"The boss was expectin' you last night," the old man said. "He was sore as hell when you wasn't here to go out this morning." He pointed with right arm, and out of the sleeve came a round stick like wrist, but no hand. "You can have them two beds there," he said, indicating two bunks near the stove.
George stepped over and threw his blankets do on the burlap sack of straw that was a mattress. He looked into his box shelf and then picked a small yellow can from it. "Say. What the hell's this?"
"I don't know," said the old man.
"Says 'positively kills lice, roaches and other:, scourges.' What the hell kind of bed you giving us, anyways. We don't want no pants rabbits."
The old swamper shifted his broom and held it between his elbow and his side while he held out his hand for the can. He studied the label carefully. "Tell you what -" he said finally, "last guy that hadthis bed was a blacksmith - hell of a nice fella and clean a guy as you want to meet. Used to wash his hands evenafter he ate."
"Then how come he got graybacks?" George working up a slow anger. Lennie put his bindle on the neighboring bunk and sat down. He watched George with open mouth.
"Tell you what," said the old swamper. "This here blacksmith - name of Whitey - was the kind of guy that would put that stuff around even if there wasn't no bugs - just to make sure, see? Tell you what he used to do - At meals he'd peel his boil' potatoes, an' he'd take out ever' little spot, no matter what kind, before he'd eat it. And if there was a red splotch on an egg, he'd scrape it off. Finally quit about the food. That's the kinda guy he was - clean. Used ta dress up Sundays even when he wasn't going no place, put on a necktie even, and then set in the bunk house."
"I ain't so sure," said George skeptically. "What did you say he quit for?"
The old man put the yellow can in his pocket, and he rubbed his bristly white whiskers with his knuckles. "Why.... he.... just quit, the way a guy will. Says it was the food. Just wanted to move. Didn't give no other reason but the food. Just says 'gimme my time' one night, the way any guy would."
George lifted his tick and looked underneath it, He leaned over and inspected the sacking closely. Immediately Lennie got up and did the same with his bed. Finally George seemed satisfied. He unrolled his bindle and put things on the shelf, his razor and bar of soap, his comb and bottle of pills, his liniment and leather wristband. Then he made his bed up neatly with blankets. The old man said, "I guess the boss'll be out here in a minute. He was sure burned when you wasn't here this morning. Come right in when we was eatin' breakfast and says, 'Where the hell's them new men?' An' he give the stable buck hell, too."
George patted a wrinkle out of his bed, and sat ' down. "Give the stable buck hell?" he asked.
"Sure. Ya see the stable buck's a nigger."

"Nigger, huh?"
"Yeah. Nice fella too. Got a crooked back where. a horse kicked him. The boss gives him hell when he's mad. But the stable buck don't give a damn about that. He reads a lot. Got books in his room."
"What kind of a guy is the boss?" George asked.
"Well, he's a pretty nice fella. Gets pretty mad sometimes, but he's pretty nice. Tell ya what - know what he done Christmas? Brang a gallon of whisky right in here and say "'Drink hearty boys. Christmas comes but once a year.'"
"The hell he did! Whole gallon?"
"Yes sir. Jesus, we had fun. They let the nigger come in that night. Little skinner name of Smithy took after the nigger. Done pretty good, too. The guys wouldn't let him use his feet, so the nigger got him. 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.