He paid no attention to Bud.

He made his loaves, tucked them into the pan and greased the top with bacon grease saved in a tomato can for such use.

He set the pan on a shelf behind the stove, covered it with a clean flour sack, opened the stove door, and slid in two sticks.
"She's getting cold," he observed casually.

"It'll be winter now before we know it." Bud grunted, pulled an empty box toward him by the simple expedient of hooking his toes behind the corner, and sat down.

He set his elbows on his thighs and buried his face in his hands.