The old man looked cautiously at the door to make sure no one was listening.
“That’s the boss’s son,” he said quietly.
“Curley’s pretty handy. He done quite a bit in the ring. He’s a lightweight, and he’s handy.”
“Well, let him be handy,” said George.
“He don’t have to take after Lennie. Lennie didn’t do nothing to him. What’s he got against Lennie?”{1}
The swamper considered…. “Well… tell you what. Curley’s like a lot of little guys. He hates big guys. He’s alla time picking scraps with big guys.
“Kind of like he’s mad at ’em because he ain’t a big guy. You seen little guys like that, ain’t you? Always scrappy?”
“Sure,” said George. “I seen plenty tough little guys. But this Curley better not make no mistakes about Lennie. Lennie ain’t handy, but this Curley punk is gonna get hurt if he messes around with Lennie.”
“Well, Curley’s pretty handy,” the swamper said skeptically.
“Never did seem right to me. S’pose Curley jumps a big guy an’ licks him. Ever’body says what a game guy Curley is.
“And s’pose he does the same thing and gets licked.
“Then ever’body says the big guy oughtta pick somebody his own size, and maybe they gang up on the big guy.
“Never did seem right to me. Seems like Curley ain’t givin’ nobody a chance.”
George was watching the door.
He said ominously, “Well, he better watch out for Lennie. Lennie ain’t no fighter, but Lennie’s strong and quick and Lennie don’t know no rules.”
He walked to the square table and sat down on one of the boxes.
He gathered some of the cards together and shuffled them.
The old man sat down on another box.
“Don’t tell Curley I said none of this. He’d slough me. He just don’t give a damn. Won’t ever get canned ’cause his old man’s the boss.”
George cut the cards and began turning them over, looking at each one and throwing it down on a pile.
He said, “This guy Curley sounds like a son-of-a-bitch to me. I don’t like mean little guys.”
“Seems to me like he’s worse lately,” said the swamper.
“He got married a couple of weeks ago. Wife lives over in the boss’s house. Seems like Curley is cockier’n ever since he got married.”
George grunted, “Maybe he’s showin’ off for his wife.”
The swamper warmed to his gossip. “You seen that glove on his left hand?”
“Yeah. I seen it.”
“Well, that glove’s fulla vaseline.”
“Vaseline? What the hell for?”
“Well, I tell ya what—Curley says he’s keepin’ that hand soft for his wife.”
George studied the cards absorbedly. “That’s a dirty thing to tell around,” he said.
The old man was reassured. He had drawn a derogatory statement from George.
He felt safe now, and he spoke more confidently. “Wait’ll you see Curley’s wife.”
George cut the cards again and put out a solitaire lay, slowly and deliberately. {2}
“Purty?” he asked casually.
“Yeah. Purty…but——”
George studied his cards. “But what?”
“Well—she got the eye.”
“Yeah? Married two weeks and got the eye? Maybe that’s why Curley’s pants is full of ants.”
“I seen her give Slim the eye. Slim’s a jerkline skinner. Hell of a nice fella. Slim don’t need to wear no high-heeled boots on a grain team.
I seen her give Slim the eye. Curley never seen it. An’ I seen her give Carlson the eye.”
George pretended a lack of interest. “Looks like we was gonna have fun.” {3}
The swamper stood up from his box. “Know what I think?” George did not answer. “Well, I think Curley’s married…a tart.”
“He ain’t the first,” said George. “There’s plenty done that.”
The old man moved toward the door, and his ancient dog lifted his head and peered about, and then got painfully to his feet to follow.
“I gotta be settin’ out the wash basins for the guys. The teams’ll be in before long. You guys gonna buck barley?” {4}
“Yeah.”
“You won’t tell Curley nothing I said?”
“Hell no.”
“Well, you look her over, mister. You see if she ain’t a tart.” He stepped out the door into the brilliant sunshine.
George laid down his cards thoughtfully, turned his piles of three. He built four clubs on his ace pile.
The sun square was on the floor now, and the flies whipped through it like sparks.
A sound of jingling harness and the croak of heavy-laden axles sounded from outside.
From the distance came a clear call.
“Stable buck—ooh, sta-able buck!” And then, “Where the hell is that God damn nigger?”
George stared at his solitaire lay, and then he flounced the cards together and turned around to Lennie.
Lennie was lying down on the bunk watching him.
“Look, Lennie! This here ain’t no setup. I’m scared. You gonna have trouble with that Curley guy. I seen that kind before.
“He was kinda feelin’ you out. He figures he’s got you scared and he’s gonna take a sock at you the first chance he gets.”
Lennie’s eyes were frightened. “I don’t want no trouble,” he said plaintively. “Don’t let him sock me, George.”
