Bud sent a lingering glance around the room and closed the door.

Hope was still with him, but it was darkened now with doubts.
In the kitchen again he hesitated, wanting his guitar and mandolin and yet aware of the foolishness of burdening himself with them now.

Food was a different matter, however.

Dave owed him for more than three weeks of hard work in the hayfield, so Bud collected from the pantry as much as he could carry, and left the house like a burglar.
Pop was fiddling with the mower that stood in front of the machine shed, plainly waiting for whatever night transpire.

And since the bunk-house door was in plain view and not so far away as Bud wished it, he went boldly over to the old man, carrying his plunder on his shoulder.
"Dave owes me for work, Pop, so I took what grub I needed," he explained with elaborate candor.