“Think this is a lawn party?” greeted Gilvey, icily. “Ye be late again, me lad, and ye’ll answer to me.”
“I thought the cook was my boss,” defended Stanley.
“The cook is my boss, ye red-head,” snarled Gilvey. “Think he has time to bother with bossing tramps? It’s bad enough for me to have to be saddled with the dirty work. Now hump yerself. Start them fires.”
With many blunders and under a liberal cursing Stanley worked through the early morning tasks. When breakfast was ready he found he could not sit down with Bub, but must work the harder in the kitchen. After the men had trooped away he was allowed to eat his meal in the corner. While he drank his coffee and tried to believe he had not been working for days Gilvey kept up a fire of coarse remarks. Lost in his somber meditations Stanley did not heed these at first. Then as he caught the insults and heard the cook chuckle an encouragement his blood boiled and he was about to rise from the table, when Gilvey’s malice was given a new turn by the breezy entrance of Bub.
“Hi, my son. How goes the battle?” he greeted, running up and slapping Stanley on the shoulder.
