“Looks like you don’t love your boss none.’’ The man shambled close, his one eye flaring. “I hate ’im,’’ he said softly. “I hate the son-of-a-bitch! Gone home now. Gone home to his house.’’ The words fell stumbling out. “He got a way—he got a way a-pickin’ a fella an’ a-tearin’ a fella. He—the son-of-a-bitch. Got a girl nineteen, purty. Says to me, ‘How’d ya like ta marry her?’ Says that right to me. An’ tonight—says, ‘They’s a dance; how’d ya like to go?’ Me, he says it to me!’’ Tears formed in his eye and tears dripped from the corner of the red eye socket. “Some day, by God—some day I’m
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