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 spattered more
batter on the stove. He had been a father only a month or so, but
that was long enough to learn many things about babies which he
had never known before. He knew, for instance, that the baby
wanted its bottle, and that Marie was going to make him wait till
feeding time by the clock.

"By heck, I wonder what would happen if that darn clock was to
stop!" he exclaimed savagely, when his nerves would bear no more.
"You'd let the kid starve to death before you'd let your own
brains tell you what to do! Husky youngster like that--feeding
'im four ounces every four days--or some simp rule like that--"
He lifted the cakes on to a plate that held two messy-looking
fried eggs whose yolks had broken, set the plate on the cluttered
table and slid petulantly into a chair and began to eat. The
squeaking chair and the crying baby continued to torment him.
Furthermore, the cakes were doughy in the middle.

"For gosh sake, Marie, give that kid his bottle!" Bud exploded
again. "Use the brains God gave yuh--such as they are! By
heck, I'll stick that darn book in the stove. Ain't yuh got any
feelings at all? Why, I wouldn't let a dog go hungry like that!