He did not mind the hour so much, but he did mortally hate to cook his own breakfast--or any other meal, for that matter.

In the next room a rocking chair was rocking with a rhythmic squeak, and a baby was squalling with that sustained volume of sound which never fails to fill the adult listener with amazement.

It affected Bud unpleasantly, just as the incessant bawling of a band of weaning calves used to do.

He could not bear the thought of young things going hungry.
"For the love of Mike, Marie! Why don't you feed that kid, or do something to shut him up ?" he exploded suddenly, dribbling pancake batter over the untidy range.
The squeak, squawk of the rocker ceased abruptly.

"'Cause it isn't time yet to feed him--that's why.