Bud Moore woke on a certain morning with a distinct and well-defined
grouch against the world as he had found it; a grouch quite different
from the sullen imp of contrariness that had possessed him lately. He
did not know just what had caused the grouch, and he did not care. He
did know, however, that he objected to the look of Cash's overshoes that
stood pigeon-toed beside Cash's bed on the opposite side of the room,
where Bud had not set his foot for three weeks and more. He disliked the
audible yawn with which Cash manifested his return from the deathlike
unconsciousness of sleep. He disliked the look of Cash's rough coat and
sweater and cap, that hung on a nail over Cash's bunk. He disliked the
thought of getting up in the cold--and more, the sure knowledge that
unless he did get up, and that speedily, Cash would be dressed ahead of
him, and starting a fire in the cookstove. Which meant that Cash would
be the first to cook and eat his breakfast, and that the warped ethics
of their dumb quarrel would demand that Bud pretend to be asleep until
Cash had fried his bacon and his hotcakes and had carried them to his
end of the oilcloth-covered table.
When, by certain well-known sounds, Bud was sure that Cash was eating,
he could, without loss of dignity or without suspicion of making
any overtures toward friendliness, get up and dress and cook his own
breakfast, and eat it at his own end of the table. Bud wondered how long
Cash, the old fool, would sulk like that. Not that he gave a darn--he
just wondered, is all. For all he cared, Cash could go on forever
cooking his own meals and living on his own side of the shack. Bud
certainly would not interrupt him in acting the fool, and if Cash wanted
to keep it up till spring, Cash was perfectly welcome to do so. It just
showed how ornery a man could be when he was let to go. So far as he was
concerned, he would just as soon as not have that dead line painted down
the middle of the cabin floor.
Nor did its presence there trouble him in the least. Just this morning,
however, the fact of Cash's stubbornness in keeping to his own side
of the line irritated Bud. He wanted to get back at the old hound
somehow--without giving in an inch in the mute deadlock. Furthermore,
he was hungry, and he did not propose to lie there and starve while old
Cash pottered around the stove. He'd tell the world he was going to
have his own breakfast first, and if Cash didn't want to set in on the
cooking, Cash could lie in bed till he was paralyzed, and be darned.