George came quietly out of the brush and the rabbit scuttled back into Lennie’s brain.
George said quietly,
“What the hell you yellin’ about?”
Lennie got up on his knees.
“You ain’t gonna leave me, are ya, George?
I know you ain’t.”
George came stiffly near and sat down beside him.
“No.”
“I knowed it,” Lennie cried. “You ain’t that kind.”
George was silent.
Lennie said,
“George.”
“Yeah?”
“I done another bad thing.”
“It don’t make no difference,” George said, and he fell silent again.
Only the topmost ridges were in the sun now.
The shadow in the valley was blue and soft.
From the distance came the sound of men shouting to one another.
George turned his head and listened to the shouts.
Lennie said,
“George.”
“Yeah?”
“Ain’t you gonna give me hell?”
“Give ya hell?”
“Sure, like you always done before.
Like,
‘If I di’n’t have you I’d take my fifty bucks—’”
“Jesus Christ, Lennie!
You can’t remember nothing that happens, but you remember ever’ word I say.”
“Well, ain’t you gonna say it?”
George shook himself.
He said woodenly,
“If I was alone I could live so easy.” His voice was monotonous, had no emphasis. “I could get a job an’ not have no mess.”
He stopped.
“Go on,” said Lennie.
“An’ when the enda the month come—”
“An’ when the end of the month came I could take my fifty bucks an’ go to a.... cat house—” He stopped again.
Lennie looked eagerly at him.
“Go on, George.
Ain’t you gonna give me no more hell?”
“No,” said George.
“Well, I can go away,” said Lennie. “I’ll go right off in the hills an’ find a cave if you don’ want me.”
George shook himself again.
“No,” he said. “I want you to stay with me here.”
Lennie said craftily —
“Tell me like you done before.”
“Tell you what?”
“’Bout the other guys an’ about us.”
George said,
“Guys like us got no fambly.