He disliked the look of Cash's rough coat and sweater and cap, that hung on a nail over Cash's bunk.

He disliked the thought of getting up in the cold--and more, the sure knowledge that unless he did get up, and that speedily, Cash would be dressed ahead of him, and starting a fire in the cookstove.

Which meant that Cash would be the first to cook and eat his breakfast, and that the warped ethics of their dumb quarrel would demand that Bud pretend to be asleep until Cash had fried his bacon and his hotcakes and had carried them to his end of the oilcloth-covered table.
When, by certain well-known sounds, Bud was sure that Cash was eating, he could, without loss of dignity or without suspicion of making any overtures toward friendliness, get up and dress and cook his own breakfast, and eat it at his own end of the table.

Bud wondered how long Cash, the old fool, would sulk like that.

Not that he gave a darn--he just wondered, is all.