not mind the hour so much, but he did mortally hate
to cook his own breakfast--or any other meal, for
that matter. In the next room a rocking chair was
rocking with a rhythmic squeak, and a baby was
squalling with that sustained volume of sound which
never fails to fill the adult listener with amazement.
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

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