Candy

“Got no teeth,” he said. “He’s all stiff with rheumatism. He ain’t no good to you, Candy. An’ he ain’t no good to himself. Why’n’t you shoot him, Candy?”

Sat’iday night. Ever’body out doin’ som’pin’. Ever’body! An’ what am I doin’? Standin’ here talkin’ to a bunch of bindle stiffs—a nigger an’ a dum–dum and a lousy ol’ sheep—an’ likin’ it because they ain’t nobody else.

You an’ me can get that little place, can’t we, George? You an’ me can go there an’ live nice, can’t we, George? Can’t we?

If they was a circus or a baseball game … we would of went to her … jus’ said ‘ta hell with work,’ an’ went to her. Never ast nobody’s say so.

“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.”

Sure. Ya see the stable buck’s a nigger.

Yeah. Nice fella too. Got a crooked back where a horse kicked him. The boss gives him hell when he’s mad. But the stable buck don’t give a damn about that. He reads a lot. Got books in his room.

A guy on a ranch don’t never listen nor he don’t ast no questions.

Candy looked for help from face to face. It was quite dark outside by now.

“Awright—take ’im.” He did not look down at the dog at all. He lay back on his bunk and crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling.