Stanley by the time the supper dishes and kettles were washed and set away.
That night, aching in every bone and thoroughly heart-sick, Stanley threw himself on the bed and for an hour or two would not be comforted. Finally he said, “It’s no use, Bub. I can’t stand it. I’d rather die of starvation than endure Gilvey’s insults and abuse longer.”
“And that would tickle Gilvey to death,” cried Bub. “Can’t you see he is trying to make you so mad you’ll forgit and go at him. Then he’ll have an excuse for polishing you off. He did that to the last feller.”
“He is horrible. Sometimes to-day I felt like killing him.”
“None of that,” sharply warned Bub. “I ain’t sharing my room with assassins. Gilvey is ignorant and a brute. If you say so I’ll join you and we’ll lick him. We could do it easy, only it wouldn’t help you much. For the men would say I had to help you hoe your row.”
“It’s not to be thought of,” quickly replied Stanley, reddening. “I’ll fight my own battles in the kitchen. I’ll keep on my guard and if he keeps his hands off me I’ll let him be and let him talk.”
“He won’t touch you,” assured Bub.
