"Because I got you an’—" "An’ I got you. We got each other, that’s what, that gives a hoot in hell about us," Lennie cried in triumph.

Guys like us got no fambly. They make a little stake an’ then they blow it in. They ain’t got nobody in the worl’ that gives a hoot in hell about ’em—

Jesus Christ, somebody’d shoot you for a coyote if you was by yourself. No, you stay with me. Your Aunt Clara wouldn’t like you running off by yourself, even if she is dead.

It ain’t no lie. We’re gonna do it. Gonna get a little place an’ live on the fatta the lan’.

"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."

An’ live on the fatta the lan’.

Slowly, like a terrier who doesn’t want to bring a ball to its master, Lennie approached, drew back, approached again.

There is a path through the willows and among the sycamores, a path beaten hard by boys coming down from the ranches to swim in the deep pool, and beaten hard by tramps who come wearily down from the highway in the evening to jungle–up near water.

"I can go right off there an’ find a cave," he said. And he continued sadly, "—an’ never have no ketchup—but I won’t care. If George don’t want me … I’ll go away. I’ll go away."