"Huh! You'd think, the way he highbrows me, that Cash never
done wrong in his life! Tin angel, him--I don't think. Next
time, I'll tell a pinheaded world I'll have to bring home a quart
or two, and put on a show right!"

Just what he meant by that remained rather obscure, even to
Bud. He got up, shut his eyes very tight and then opened them
wide to clear his vision, shook himself into his clothes and went
over to the stove. Cash had not left the coffeepot on the stove
but had, with malicious intent--or so Bud believed--put it
away on the shelf so that what coffee remained was stone cold.
Bud muttered and threw out the coffee, grounds and all--a bit
of bachelor extravagance which only anger could drive him to--
and made fresh coffee, and made it strong. He did not want it. He
drank it for the work of physical regeneration it would do for
him.

He lay down afterwards, and this time he dropped into a more
nearly normal sleep, which lasted until Cash returned at dusk
After that he lay with his face hidden, awake and thinking.
Thinking, for the most part, of how dull and purposeless life
was, and wondering why the world was made, or the people in it
--since nobody was happy, and few even pretended to be. Did God
really make the world, and man, just to play with--for a
pastime? Then why bother about feeling ashamed for anything one
did that was contrary to God's laws?

Why be puffed up with pride for keeping one or two of them
unbroken--like Cash, for instance. Just because Cash never