He threw the box of
chocolates into the wood-box, crawled out of the window by which
he had entered, and went down town to a hotel. If the house
wasn't good enough for Marie, let her go. He could go just as
fast and as far as she could. And if she thought he was going to
hot-foot it over to her mother's and whine around and beg her to
come home, she had another think coming.
He wouldn't go near the darn place again, except to get his
clothes. He'd bust up the joint, by thunder. He'd sell off the
furniture and turn the house over to the agent again, and Marie
could whistle for a home. She had been darn glad to get into that
house, he remembered, and away from that old cat of a mother. Let
her stay there now till she was darn good and sick of it. He'd
just keep her guessing for awhile; a week or so would do her
good. Well, he wouldn't sell the furniture--he'd just move it
into another house, and give her a darn good scare. He'd get a
better one, that had a porcelain bathtub instead of a zinc one,
and a better porch, where the kid could be out in the sun. Yes,
sir, he'd just do that little thing, and lay low and see what
Marie did about that. Keep her guessing--that was the play to
make.
Unfortunately for his domestic happiness, Bud failed to take
into account two very important factors in the quarrel.
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