CHAPTER THIRTEEN. CABIN FEVER IN THE WORST FORM
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.
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