They tasted mighty good, Bud thought--but he wished fleetingly
that he was back in the little green cottage on North Sixth
Street, getting his own breakfast. He felt as though he could
drink about four caps of coffee; and as to hotcakes--! But
breakfast in the little green cottage recalled Marie, and Marie
was a bitter memory. All the more bitter because he did not know
where burrowed the root of his hot resentment. In a strong man's
love for his home and his mate was it rooted, and drew therefrom
the wormwood of love thwarted and spurned.
After awhile the high air currents flung aside the clouds like
curtains before a doorway. The sunlight flashed out dazzlingly
and showed Bud that the world, even this tumbled world, was good
to look upon. His instincts were all for the great outdoors, and
from such the sun brings quick response. Bud lifted his head,
looked out over the hills to where a bare plain stretched in the
far distance, and went on more briskly.
He did not meet any one at all; but that was chiefly because he
did not want to meet any one. He went with his ears and his eyes
alert, and was not above hiding behind a clump of stunted bushes
when two horsemen rode down a canyon trail just below him.
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