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Whit found the place again, but he did not surrender his hold on it. He pointed out the letter with his forefinger. And then he went to his box shelf and laid the magazine carefully in. "I wonder if Bill seen it," he said. "Bill and me worked in that patch of field peas. Run cultivators, both of us. Bill was a hell of a nice fella." (3.79)
By publishing a letter (even kind of a silly letter) Bill achieves a kind of freedom that none of the other guys have. His voice makes it off the ranches and into the wide world—even if he never does.
"And it'd be our own, an' nobody could can us. If we don't like a guy we can say, 'Get the hell out,' and by God he's got to do it. An' if a fren' come along, why we'd have an extra bunk, an' we'd say, 'Why don't you spen' the night?' An' by God he would." (3.209)
For Lennie and George, a key part of the dream farm is the freedom to let their friends stay with them. Wonder if they'll get those little guest soaps and matching towel sets?
George said wonderingly, "S'pose they was a carnival or a circus come to town, or a ball game, or any damn thing." Old Candy nodded in appreciation of the idea. "We'd just go to her," George said. "We wouldn't ask nobody if we could. Jus' say, "We'll go to her,' an' we would. Jus' milk the cow and sling some grain to the chickens an' go to her." (3.224)
Check out the "wonderingly": when he's actually starting to believe that the farm might happen, George is most overwhelmed by the idea that they could do anything they wanted whenever they wanted. You know, kind of like going to college and ordering pizza at 2AM—except you have to milk the cow first.