It
affected Bud unpleasantly, just as the incessant bawling of a
band of weaning calves used to do. He could not bear the thought
of young things going hungry.
"For the love of Mike, Marie! Why don't you feed that kid, or
do something to shut him up?" he exploded suddenly, dribbling
pancake batter over the untidy range.
The squeak, squawk of the rocker ceased abruptly. "'Cause it
isn't time yet to feed him--that's why. What's burning out
there? I'll bet you've got the stove all over dough again--"
The chair resumed its squeaking, the baby continued uninterrupted
its wah-h-hah! wah-h-hah, as though it was a phonograph that had
been wound up with that record on, and no one around to stop it
Bud turned his hotcakes with a vicious flop that spattered more
batter on the stove. He had been a father only a month or so, but
that was long enough to learn many things about babies which he
had never known before. He knew, for instance, that the baby
wanted its bottle, and that Marie was going to make him wait till
feeding time by the clock.
"By heck, I wonder what would happen if that darn clock was to
stop!" he exclaimed savagely, when his nerves would bear no more.
"You'd let the kid starve to death before you'd let your own
brains tell you what to do! Husky youngster like that--feeding
'im four ounces every four days--or some simp rule like that--"
He lifted the cakes on to a plate that held two messy-looking
fried eggs whose yolks had broken, set the plate on the cluttered
table and slid petulantly into a chair and began to eat.
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