His rainproofed overcoat became quite soggy and damp on the inside, in spite of his efforts to shield himself from the rain.

It was not exactly a comfortable night, but he worried through it somehow.
At daylight he opened another can of beans and made himself two thick bean sandwiches, and walked on while he ate them slowly.

They tasted mighty good, Bud thought--but he wished fleetingly that he was back in the little green cottage on North Sixth Street, getting his own breakfast.

He felt as though he could drink about four cups of coffee; and as to hotcakes--! But breakfast in the little green cottage recalled Marie, and Marie was a bitter memory.

All the more bitter because he did not know where burrowed the root of his hot resentment.