San Francisco and Seattle were just starting a series of ballgames that promised to be rather swift, and I'd got a lot up on the result.

I hated to go just then.

And Montana has the reputation of being rather beastly in early March--I knew that much.
I caught a car down to the Olympic, hunted up Barney MacTague, and played poker with him till two o'clock that night, and never once mentioned the trip I was contemplating.

Then I went home, routed up my man, and told him what to pack, and went to bed for a few hours; if there was anything pleasant in my surroundings that I failed to think of as I lay there, it must be very trivial indeed.

I even went so far as to regret leaving Ethel Mapleton, whom I cared nothing for.
And above all and beneath all, hanging in the background of my mind and dodging forward insistently in spite of myself, was a deep resentment--a soreness against dad for the way he had served me.