For the first time in many weeks he sang--if you could call it singing--over his work.
When Casey Ryan sings over a breakfast fire, you may expect the bacon fried exactly right.

You may be sure the hot-cakes will be browned correctly with no uncooked dough inside, and that the coffee will give you heart for whatever hardship the day may hold.
Even Paw's surliness lightened a bit by the time he had speared his tenth cake and walloped it in the bacon grease before sprinkling it thick with sugar and settling the eleventh cake on top.

Casey was eyeing the fourteenth cake on Hank's plate when Joe looked up at him over a loaded fork.
"Save out enough dough for three good uns," Joe ordered, "an' fill that little coffee pot an' set it to keep hot, before Hank hogs the hull thing.

Dad, seems like you're, too busy t' think uh some things Mart wouldn't want forgot." Paw looked quickly at Casey; but Casey Ryan had played poker all his life, and his weathered face showed no expression beyond a momentary interest, which was natural.
"Other feller hurt bad ?" he inquired carelessly, looking at Joe's bandaged hand.

He almost grinned when he saw the relieved glances exchanged between Joe and Paw.
"Leg broke," Joe mumbled over a mouthful.