Books, hockey, and a bucketful of snark

"We was drunk," Joad said softly. "Drunk at a dance. I don' know how she started. An' then I felt that knife go in me, an' that sobered me up. Fust thing I see is Herb comin' for me again with his knife. They was this here shovel leanin' against the schoolhouse, so I grabbed it and smacked 'im over the head. I never had nothin against Herb. He was a nice fella. Comes a-bullin' after my sister Rosasharn when he was a little fella. No, I liked Herb."

Joad took the last of the rabbit from the wire and passed it around. He settled back and ate more slowly now, chewed evenly, and wiped the grease from his mouth with his sleeve. And his eyes, dark and half closed, brooded as he looked into the dying fire. "Ever'body's goin' west," he said. "I got me a parole to keep. Can't leave the state."

from The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck