For a man who was wintering in what is called enforced idleness
in a snow-bound cabin in the mountains, Bud Moore did not find
the next few days hanging heavily on his hands. Far from it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THEY HAVE THEIR TROUBLES
To begin with, Lovin Child got hold of Cash's tobacco can and
was feeding it by small handfuls to the flames, when Bud caught
him. He yelled when Bud took it away, and bumped his head on the
floor and yelled again, and spatted his hands together and
yelled, and threw himself on his back and kicked and yelled;
while Bud towered over him and yelled expostulations and
reprimands and cajolery that did not cajole.
Cash turned over with a groan, his two palms pressed against
his splitting head, and hoarsely commanded the two to shut up
that infernal noise. He was a sick man. He was a very sick man,
and he had stood the limit.
"Shut up?" Bud shouted above the din of Lovin Child. "Ain't I
trying to shut him up, for gosh sake? What d'yuh want me to do?
--let him throw all the tobacco you got into the fire? Here,
you young imp, quit that, before I spank you! Quick, now--we've
had about enough outa you! You lay down there, Cash, and
quit your croaking. You'll croak right, if you don't keep covered
up.
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