shook him violently and commanded, “Git up! Turn out!”
“You just come to bed?” sleepin asked Stanley, preparing for another nap.
“Just come to bed! It’s morning and time you was hoofing it downstairs. Want the cook to come up and git you? Better not have him, my son.”
“But it’s dark,” remonstrated Stanley, his heart sinking at the loneliness of the hour.
“It’ll be mighty hot if you ain’t downstairs in two jumps,” warned Bub. The note of earnestness in his voice had its effect on Stanley.
With a shiver the youth crawled from the warm blankets and fumbled for his clothes. He had never known that nights and mornings in late May could be so desolate and cold. The rawness of the early morning air bit to the bone. And to heighten his sense of isolation Bub snored softly as he cuddled luxuriously. And with his heart in his boots Stanley stole awkwardly down the stairs and out into the kitchen.
Here he found the cook’s assistant, an Irishman named Gilvey. He was some four years older than Stanley, but ages ahead of him in importance.
