The bunkhouse 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
latch. 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 his 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 down 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
had this bed was a blacksmith- hell of a nice fella and as clean a guy
as you want to meet. Used to wash his hands even after he ate."
"Then how come he got graybacks?" George was working up a slow
