“George Milton.”
“And what’s yours?”
George said, “His name’s Lennie Small.”
The names were entered in the book.
“Le’s see, this is the twentieth, noon the twentieth.” He closed the book. “Where you boys been working?”
“Up around Weed,” said George.
“You, too?” to Lennie.
“Yeah, him too,” said George.
The boss pointed a playful finger at Lennie.
“He ain’t much of a talker, is he?”
“No, he ain’t, but he’s sure a hell of a good worker.
Strong as a bull.”
Lennie smiled to himself.
“Strong as a bull,” he repeated.
George scowled at him, and Lennie dropped his head in shame at having forgotten.
The boss said suddenly,
“Listen, Small!” Lennie raised his head. “What can you do?”
In a panic, Lennie looked at George for help.
“He can do anything you tell him,” said George. “He’s a good skinner.
He can rassel grain bags, drive a cultivator.
He can do anything.
Just give him a try.”
The boss turned on George.
“Then why don’t you let him answer?
What you trying to put over?”
George broke in loudly,
“Oh! I ain’t saying he’s bright.
He ain’t.
But I say he’s a God damn good worker.
He can put up a four hundred pound bale.”
The boss deliberately put the little book in his pocket.
He hooked his thumbs in his belt and squinted one eye nearly closed.
“Say — what you sellin’?”
“Huh?”
“I said what stake you got in this guy?
You takin’ his pay away from him?”
“No, ‘course I ain’t.
Why ya think I’m sellin’ him out?”
“Well, I never seen one guy take so much trouble for another guy.
I just like to know what your interest is.”
George said, “He’s my.... cousin. I told his old lady I’d take care of him.
He got kicked in the head by a horse when he was a kid.
He’s awright. Just ain’t bright.
But he can do anything you tell him.”
The boss turned half away.
“Well, God knows he don’t need any brains to buck barley bags.
But don’t you try to put nothing over, Milton.
I got my eye on you.
Why’d you quit in Weed?”
“Job was done,” said George promptly.