Having detected all forms of degeneracy in the farmer's face Kenny
barricaded the door with a loose plank from the upper step, made sure
it would fall easily with a clatter, examined his revolver and had his
sleep out, thanks to the fact that the day proved cloudy. He awoke to
flies and disillusion. His head ached. His back ached. There was a
spider in his hat. He wanted water. He wanted a brook equipped with a
shower-bath and he wanted the luxury of eating what he chose. Never,
never would he eat cheese again unless the hand of famine gripped him.
Perhaps not then. The sum of his discontent plunged him into a black
temper in which he rehearsed the details of his morning's misadventure
with growing spleen and wished sincerely that Silas would appear again
and roar at him. And, then, gingerly descending the rickety steps,
Kenny remembered that the corncrib was his.

His . . . and not his. For he could not take it with him. It was a
tantalizing thought. Not that he wanted it. God forbid! Ever after
he would hate the sight of a corncrib. He simply resented the notion
of leaving it behind for the vocal entertainment of Silas, who would
likely get up again with the roosters and roar into it at "hoboes."
Yes, the corncrib would revert to Silas, from whom he had merely rented
it for one night at a most appalling price. The improvidence of it
shocked him. Kenny retraced his footsteps in a blaze of indignation
and made a bonfire on the corncrib floor to which in a reckless spasm
of disgust he consigned the remainder of his supper. The crazy
structure caught at once, with a smell of cheese.

Five minutes later Kenny's corncrib was a mass of flames and Silas had
appeared at the end of the field roaring incomprehensible profanity.
Kenny, waiting, whistled softly with a defiant air of calm. The