was Buddy, grown to be Bud.

And Buddy, now that he was a man, had been told that he was
not expected to stay at home and help his father, and be a
comfort to his mother. He was like a young eagle which,
having grown wing-feathers that will bear the strain of high
air currents, has been pecked out of the nest. No doubt the
young eagle resents his unexpected banishment, although in
time he would have felt within himself the urge to go. Leave
Bud alone, and soon or late he would have gone--perhaps with
compunctions against leaving home, and the feeling that he
was somehow a disappointment to his parents. He would have
explained to his father, apologized to his mother. As it was,
he resented the alacrity with which his father was pushing
him out.

So he packed his clothes that night, and pushed his guitar
into its case and buckled the strap with a vicious yank, and
went off to the bunkhouse to eat supper with the boys instead
of sitting down to the table where his mother had placed
certain dishes which Buddy loved best--wanting to show in
true woman fashion her love and sympathy for him.

Later--it was after Bud had gone to bed--mother came and had
a long talk with him. She was very sweet and sensible, and
Bud was very tender with her. But she could not budge him
from his determination to go and make his way without a
Birnie dollar to ease the beginning. Other men had started
with nothing and had made a stake, and there was no reason
why he could not do so.