companion dropped his blankets and flung himself down and drank from the surface of the green
pool; drank with long gulps, snorting into the water like a horse. The small man stepped nervously
beside him.
“Lennie!” he said sharply. “Lennie, for God’ sakes don’t drink so much.” Lennie continued to
snort into the pool. The small man leaned over and shook him by the shoulder. “Lennie. You gonna
be sick like you was last night.”
Lennie dipped his whole head under, hat and all, and then he sat up on the bank and his hat
dripped down on his blue coat and ran down his back. “That’s good,” he said. “You drink some,
George. You take a good big drink.” He smiled happily.
George unslung his bindle and dropped it gently on the bank. “I ain’t sure it’s good water,” he
said. “Looks kinda scummy.”
Lennie dabbled his big paw in the water and wiggled his fingers so the water arose
in little
splashes; rings widened across the pool to the other side and came back again.
Lennie
watched
them go. “Look, George. Look what I done.”
George knelt beside the pool and drank from his hand with quick scoops. “Tastes all right,” he
admitted. “Don’t really seem to be running, though. You never oughta drink water when it ain’t
running, Lennie,” he said hopelessly. “You’d drink out of a gutter if you was thirsty.” He threw a
scoop of water into his face and rubbed it about with his hand, under his chin and around the back
of his neck. Then he replaced his hat, pushed himself back from the river, drew up his knees and
embraced them. Lennie, who had been watching, imitated George exactly. He pushed himself back,
drew up his knees, embraced them, looked over to George to see whether he had it just right. He
pulled his hat down a little more over his eyes, the way George’s hat was.
George stared morosely at the water. The rims of his eyes were red with sun glare.
He said
angrily, “We could just as well of rode clear to the ranch if that bastard bus driver knew what he
was talkin’ about. ‘Jes’ a little stretch down the highway,’ he says. ‘Jes’ a little stretch.’
God damn
near four miles, that’s what it was! Didn’t wanta stop at the ranch gate, that’s what.
Too God damn
lazy to pull up. Wonder he isn’t too damn good to stop in Soledad at all. Kicks us out and says
‘Jes’
a little stretch down the road.’ I bet it was more than four miles. Damn hot day.”
Lennie looked timidly over to him. “George?”
“Yeah, what ya want?”
“Where we goin’, George?”
The little man jerked down the brim of his hat and scowled over at Lennie. “So you forgot that
awready, did you? I gotta tell you again, do I? Jesus Christ, you’re a crazy bastard!”
“I forgot,” Lennie said softly. “I tried not to forget. Honest to God I did, George.”
“O.K—O.K. I’ll tell ya again. I ain’t got nothing to do. Might jus’ as well spen’ all my time
tellin’ you things and then you forget ‘em, and I tell you again.”
“Tried and tried,” said Lennie, “but it didn’t do no good. I remember about the rabbits,
George.”
“The hell with the rabbits. That’s all you ever can remember is them rabbits. O.K.! Now you
listen and this time you got to remember so we don’t get in no trouble. You remember settin’
in that
gutter on Howard Street and watchin’ that blackboard?”
Lennie’s face broke into a delighted smile. “Why sure, George. I remember that . . . .
but . . . .
what’d we do then? I remember some girls come by and you says . . . . you says . . . .”
“The hell with what I says. You remember about us goin’ in to Murray and Ready’s, and they
give us work cards and bus tickets?”
“Oh, sure, George. I remember that now.” His hands went quickly into his side coat pockets. He
said gently, “George . . . . I ain’t got mine. I musta lost it.” He looked
down at the ground in
despair.
“You never had none, you crazy bastard. I got both of ‘em here. Think I’d let you carry your
own work card?”
Lennie grinned with relief. “I . . I thought I put it in my side pocket.” His hand
went into the
pocket again.
George looked sharply at him. “What’d you take outa that pocket?”
“Ain’t a thing in my pocket,” Lennie said cleverly.
“I know there ain’t. You got it in your hand. What you got in your hand—hidin’ it?”
“I ain’t got nothin’, George. Honest.”
“Come on, give it here.”
Lennie held his closed hand away from George’s direction. “It’s on’y a mouse, George.”
“A mouse? A live mouse?”
“Uh-uh. Jus’ a dead mouse, George. I didn’t kill it. Honest! I found it. I found it dead.”
“Give it here!” said George.
“Aw, leave me have it, George.”
“Give it here!”
Lennie’s closed hand slowly obeyed. George took the mouse and threw it across the pool to the
other side, among the brush. “What you want of a dead mouse, anyways?”
“I could pet it with my thumb while we walked along,” said Lennie.
“Well, you ain’t petting no mice while you walk with me. You remember where we’re goin’
now?”
Lennie looked startled and then in embarrassment hid his face against his knees.
“I forgot
again.”
“Jesus Christ,” George said resignedly. “Well—look, we’re gonna work on a ranch like the one
we come from up north.”
“Up north?”
“In Weed.”
“Oh, sure. I remember. In Weed.”
“That ranch we’re goin’ to is right down there about a quarter mile. We’re gonna go in an’ see
the boss. Now, look—I’ll give him the work tickets, but you ain’t gonna say a word. You jus’ stand
there and don’t say nothing. If he finds out what a crazy bastard you are, we won’t get no job,
but if
he sees ya work before he hears ya talk, we’re set. Ya got that?”
“Sure, George. Sure I got it.”
“O.K. Now when we go in to see the boss, what you gonna do?”
“I . . . . I . . . .” Lennie thought. His face grew tight with thought. “I . . . . ain’t
gonna say nothin’.
Jus’ gonna stan’ there.”
“Good boy. That’s swell. You say that over two, three times so you sure won’t forget it.”
Lennie droned to himself softly, “I ain’t gonna say nothin’ . . . . I ain’t gonna say
nothin’ . . . . I
ain’t gonna say nothin’.”
“O.K.,” said George. “An’ you ain’t gonna do no bad things like you done in Weed, neither.”
Lennie looked puzzled. “Like I done in Weed?”
“Oh, so ya forgot that too, did ya? Well, I ain’t gonna remind ya, fear ya do it again.”
A light of understanding broke on Lennie’s face. “They run us outa Weed,”
he exploded
triumphantly.
“Run us out, hell,” said George disgustedly. “We run. They was lookin’ for us, but they didn’t
catch us.”
Lennie giggled happily. “I didn’t forget that, you bet.”
George lay back on the sand and crossed his hands under his head, and Lennie imitated him,
raising his head to see whether he was doing it right. “God, you’re a lot of trouble,”
said George. “I
could get along so easy and so nice if I didn’t have you on my tail. I could live so easy
and maybe
have a girl.”
For a moment Lennie lay quiet, and then he said hopefully, “We gonna work on
a ranch,
George.”
“Awright. You got that. But we’re gonna sleep here because I got a reason.”
The day was going fast now. Only the tops of the Gabilan Mountains flamed with the light of the
sun that had gone from the valley. A water snake slipped along on the pool, its head held up
like a
little periscope. The reeds jerked slightly in the current. Far off toward the highway a man
shouted
something, and another man shouted back. The sycamore limbs rustled under a little wind that died
immediately.
“George—why ain’t we goin’ on to the ranch and get some supper? They got
supper at the
ranch.”
George rolled on his side. “No reason at all for you. I like it here. Tomorra we’re
gonna go to
work. I seen thrashin’ machines on the way down. That means we’ll be buckin’ grain bags, bustin’
a gut. Tonight I’m gonna lay right here and look up. I like it.”
Lennie got up on his knees and looked down at George. “Ain’t we gonna have no supper?”
“Sure we are, if you gather up some dead willow sticks. I got three cans of beans in my bindle.
You get a fire ready. I’ll give you a match when you get the sticks together. Then we’ll heat the
beans and have supper.”
Lennie said, “I like beans with ketchup.”
“Well, we ain’t got no ketchup. You go get wood. An’ don’t you fool around.
It’ll be dark
before long.”
Lennie lumbered to his feet and disappeared in the brush. George lay where he was and whistled
softly to himself. There were sounds of splashings down the river in the direction Lennie
had taken.
George stopped whistling and listened. “Poor bastard,” he said softly, and then went on whistling
again.
In a moment Lennie came crashing back through the brush. He carried one small willow stick in
his hand. George sat up. “Awright,” he said brusquely. “Gi’me that mouse!”
But Lennie made an elaborate pantomime of innocence. “What mouse, George? I ain’t got no
mouse.”
George held out his hand. “Come on. Give it to me. You ain’t puttin’ nothing over.”
Lennie hesitated, backed away, looked wildly at the brush line as though
he contemplated
running for his freedom. George said coldly, “You gonna give me that mouse or do I have to sock
you?”
“Give you what, George?”
“You know God damn well what. I want that mouse.”
Lennie reluctantly reached into his pocket. His voice broke a little. “I don’t know why I can’t
keep it. It ain’t nobody’s mouse. I didn’t steal it. I found it lyin’ right beside the road.”
George’s hand remained outstretched imperiously. Slowly, like a terrier who
doesn’t want to
bring a ball to its master, Lennie approached, drew back, approached again. George snapped his
fingers sharply, and at the sound Lennie laid the mouse in his hand.