B. M. Bower
Cabin Fever
UUID: 16735814-5ecd-11e6-9266-0f7870795abd
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Table of contents
CHAPTER ONE. THE FEVER MANIFESTS ITSELF
CHAPTER TWO. TWO MAKE A QUARREL
CHAPTER THREE. TEN DOLLARS AND A JOB FOB BUD
CHAPTER FOUR. HEAD SOUTH AND KEEP GOING
CHAPTER FIVE. BUD CANNOT PERFORM MIRACLES
CHAPTER SIX. BUD TAKES TO THE HILLS
CHAPTER SEVEN. INTO THE DESERT
CHAPTER EIGHT. MANY BARREN MONTHS AND MILES
CHAPTER NINE. THE BITE OF MEMORY
CHAPTER TEN. EMOTIONS ARE TRICKY THINGS
CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE FIRST STAGES
CHAPTER TWELVE. MARIE TAKES A DESPERATE CHANCE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN. CABIN FEVER IN THE WORST FORM
CHAPTER FOURTEEN. CASH GETS A SHOCK
CHAPTER FIFTEEN. AND BUD NEVER GUESSED
CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE ANTIDOTE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. LOVIN CHILD WRIGGLES IN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THEY HAVE THEIR TROUBLES
CHAPTER NINETEEN. BUD FACES FACTS
CHAPTER TWENTY. LOVIN CHILD STRIKES IT RICH
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. MARIE'S SIDE OF IT
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. THE CURE COMPLETE
CHAPTER ONE. THE FEVER MANIFESTS ITSELF
There
is a certain malady of the mind induced by too much of one thing.
Just as the body fed too long upon meat becomes a prey to that horrid
disease called scurvy, so the mind fed too long upon monotony
succumbs to the insidious mental ailment which the West calls "cabin
fever." True, it parades under different names, according to
circumstances and caste. You may be afflicted in a palace and call it
ennui, and it may drive you to commit peccadillos and indiscretions
of various sorts. You may be attacked in a middle-class apartment
house, and call it various names, and it may drive you to cafe life
and affinities and alimony. You may have it wherever you are shunted
into a backwater of life, and lose the sense of being borne along in
the full current of progress. Be sure that it will make you
abnormally sensitive to little things; irritable where once you were
amiable; glum where once you went whistling about your work and your
play. It is the crystallizer of character, the acid test of
friendship, the final seal set upon enmity. It will betray your
little, hidden weaknesses, cut and polish your undiscovered virtues,
reveal you in all your glory or your vileness to your companions in
exile--if so be you have any.If
you would test the soul of a friend, take him into the wilderness and
rub elbows with him for five months! One of three things will surely
happen: You will hate each other afterward with that enlightened
hatred which is seasoned with contempt; you will emerge with the
contempt tinged with a pitying toleration, or you will be close,
unquestioning friends to the last six feet of earth--and beyond. All
these things will cabin fever do, and more. It has committed murder,
many's the time. It has driven men crazy. It has warped and distorted
character out of all semblance to its former self. It has sweetened
love and killed love. There is an antidote--but I am going to let you
find the antidote somewhere in the story.Bud
Moore, ex-cow-puncher and now owner of an auto stage that did not run
in the winter, was touched with cabin fever and did not know what
ailed him. His stage line ran from San Jose up through Los Gatos and
over the Bear Creek road across the summit of the Santa Cruz
Mountains and down to the State Park, which is locally called Big
Basin. For something over fifty miles of wonderful scenic travel he
charged six dollars, and usually his big car was loaded to the
running boards. Bud was a good driver, and he had a friendly pair of
eyes--dark blue and with a humorous little twinkle deep down in them
somewhere--and a human little smiley quirk at the corners of his
lips. He did not know it, but these things helped to fill his car.Until
gasoline married into the skylark family, Bud did well enough to keep
him contented out of a stock saddle. (You may not know it, but it is
harder for an old cow-puncher to find content, now that the free
range is gone into history, than it is for a labor agitator to be
happy in a municipal boarding house.)Bud
did well enough, which was very well indeed. Before the second season
closed with the first fall rains, he had paid for his big car and got
the insurance policy transferred to his name. He walked up First
Street with his hat pushed back and a cigarette dangling from the
quirkiest corner of his mouth, and his hands in his pockets. The glow
of prosperity warmed his manner toward the world. He had a little
money in the bank, he had his big car, he had the good will of a
smiling world. He could not walk half a block in any one of three or
four towns but he was hailed with a "Hello, Bud!" in a
welcoming tone. More people knew him than Bud remembered well enough
to call by name--which is the final proof of popularity the world
over.In
that glowing mood he had met and married a girl who went into Big
Basin with her mother and camped for three weeks. The girl had taken
frequent trips to Boulder Creek, and twice had gone on to San Jose,
and she had made it a point to ride with the driver because she was
crazy about cars. So she said. Marie had all the effect of being a
pretty girl. She habitually wore white middies with blue collar and
tie, which went well with her clear, pink skin and her hair that just
escaped being red. She knew how to tilt her "beach" hat at
the most provocative angle, and she knew just when to let Bud catch a
slow, sidelong glance--of the kind that is supposed to set a man's
heart to syncopatic behavior. She did not do it too often. She did
not powder too much, and she had the latest slang at her pink
tongue's tip and was yet moderate in her use of it.Bud
did not notice Marie much on the first trip. She was demure, and Bud
had a girl in San Jose who had brought him to that interesting stage
of dalliance where he wondered if he dared kiss her good night the
next time he called. He was preoccupiedly reviewing the
she-said-and-then-I-said, and trying to make up his mind whether he
should kiss her and take a chance on her displeasure, or whether he
had better wait. To him Marie appeared hazily as another camper who
helped fill the car--and his pocket--and was not at all hard to look
at. It was not until the third trip that Bud thought her beautiful,
and was secretly glad that he had not kissed that San Jose girl.You
know how these romances develop. Every summer is saturated with them
the world over. But Bud happened to be a simple-souled fellow, and
there was something about Marie--He didn't know what it was. Men
never do know, until it is all over. He only knew that the drive
through the shady stretches of woodland grew suddenly to seem like
little journeys into paradise. Sentiment lurked behind every great,
mossy tree bole. New beauties unfolded in the winding drive up over
the mountain crests. Bud was terribly in love with the world in those
days.There
were the evenings he spent in the Basin, sitting beside Marie in the
huge campfire circle, made wonderful by the shadowy giants, the
redwoods; talking foolishness in undertones while the crowd sang
snatches of songs which no one knew from beginning to end, and that
went very lumpy in the verses and very much out of harmony in the
choruses. Sometimes they would stroll down toward that sweeter music
the creek made, and stand beside one of the enormous trees and watch
the glow of the fire, and the silhouettes of the people gathered
around it.In
a week they were surreptitiously holding hands. In two weeks they
could scarcely endure the partings when Bud must start back to San
Jose, and were taxing their ingenuity to invent new reasons why Marie
must go along. In three weeks they were married, and Marie's
mother--a shrewd, shrewish widow--was trying to decide whether she
should wash her hands of Marie, or whether it might be well to accept
the situation and hope that Bud would prove himself a rising young
man.But
that was a year in the past. Bud had cabin fever now and did not know
what ailed him, though cause might have been summed up in two meaty
phrases: too much idleness, and too much mother- in-law. Also, not
enough comfort and not enough love.In
the kitchen of the little green cottage on North Sixth Street where
Bud had built the home nest with much nearly-Mission furniture and a
piano, Bud was frying his own hotcakes for his ten o'clock breakfast,
and was scowling over the task. He did not mind the hour so much, but
he did mortally hate to cook his own breakfast--or any other meal,
for that matter. In the next room a rocking chair was rocking with a
rhythmic squeak, and a baby was squalling with that sustained volume
of sound which never fails to fill the adult listener with amazement.
It affected Bud unpleasantly, just as the incessant bawling of a band
of weaning calves used to do. He could not bear the thought of young
things going hungry."For
the love of Mike, Marie! Why don't you feed that kid, or do something
to shut him up?" he exploded suddenly, dribbling pancake batter
over the untidy range.The
squeak, squawk of the rocker ceased abruptly. "'Cause it isn't
time yet to feed him--that's why. What's burning out there? I'll bet
you've got the stove all over dough again--" The chair resumed
its squeaking, the baby continued uninterrupted its wah-h-hah!
wah-h-hah, as though it was a phonograph that had been wound up with
that record on, and no one around to stop itBud
turned his hotcakes with a vicious flop that spattered more batter on
the stove. He had been a father only a month or so, but that was long
enough to learn many things about babies which he had never known
before. He knew, for instance, that the baby wanted its bottle, and
that Marie was going to make him wait till feeding time by the clock."By
heck, I wonder what would happen if that darn clock was to stop!"
he exclaimed savagely, when his nerves would bear no more. "You'd
let the kid starve to death before you'd let your own brains tell you
what to do! Husky youngster like that--feeding 'im four ounces every
four days--or some simp rule like that--" He lifted the cakes on
to a plate that held two messy-looking fried eggs whose yolks had
broken, set the plate on the cluttered table and slid petulantly into
a chair and began to eat. The squeaking chair and the crying baby
continued to torment him. Furthermore, the cakes were doughy in the
middle."For
gosh sake, Marie, give that kid his bottle!" Bud exploded again.
"Use the brains God gave yuh--such as they are! By heck, I'll
stick that darn book in the stove. Ain't yuh got any feelings at all?
Why, I wouldn't let a dog go hungry like that! Don't yuh reckon the
kid knows when he's hungry? Why, good Lord! I'll take and feed him
myself, if you don't. I'll burn that book--so help me!""Yes,
you will--not!" Marie's voice rose shrewishly, riding the high
waves of the baby's incessant outcry against the restrictions upon
appetite imposed by enlightened motherhood. "You do, and see
what'll happen! You'd have him howling with colic, that's what you'd
do.""Well,
I'll tell the world he wouldn't holler for grub! You'd go by the book
if it told yuh to stand 'im on his head in the ice chest! By heck,
between a woman and a hen turkey, give me the turkey when it comes to
sense. They do take care of their young ones--""Aw,
forget that! When it comes to sense---"Oh,
well, why go into details? You all know how these domestic storms
arise, and how love washes overboard when the matrimonial ship begins
to wallow in the seas of recrimination.Bud
lost his temper and said a good many things should not have said.
Marie flung back angry retorts and reminded Bud of all his sins and
slights and shortcomings, and told him many of mamma's pessimistic
prophecies concerning him, most of which seemed likely to be
fulfilled. Bud fought back, telling Marie how much of a snap she had
had since she married him, and how he must have looked like ready
money to her, and added that now, by heck, he even had to do his own
cooking, as well as listen to her whining and nagging, and that there
wasn't clean corner in the house, and she'd rather let her own baby
go hungry than break a simp rule in a darn book got up by a bunch of
boobs that didn't know anything about kids. Surely to goodness, he
finished his heated paragraph, it wouldn't break any woman's back to
pour a little warm water on a little malted milk, and shake it up.He
told Marie other things, and in return, Marie informed him that he
was just a big-mouthed, lazy brute, and she could curse the day she
ever met him. That was going pretty far. Bud reminded her that she
had not done any cursing at the time, being in his opinion too busy
roping him in to support her.By
that time he had gulped down his coffee, and was into his coat, and
looking for his hat. Marie, crying and scolding and rocking the
vociferous infant, interrupted herself to tell him that she wanted a
ten-cent roll of cotton from the drug store, and added that she hoped
she would not have to wait until next Christmas for it, either. Which
bit of sarcasm so inflamed Bud's rage that he swore every step of the
way to Santa Clara Avenue, and only stopped then because he happened
to meet a friend who was going down town, and they walked together.At
the drug store on the corner of Second Street Bud stopped and bought
the cotton, feeling remorseful for some of the things he had said to
Marie, but not enough so to send him back home to tell her he was
sorry. He went on, and met another friend before he had taken twenty
steps. This friend was thinking of buying a certain second-hand
automobile that was offered at a very low price, and he wanted Bud to
go with him and look her over. Bud went, glad of the excuse to kill
the rest of the forenoon.They
took the car out and drove to Schutzen Park and back. Bud opined that
she didn't bark to suit him, and she had a knock in her cylinders
that shouted of carbon. They ran her into the garage shop and went
deep into her vitals, and because she jerked when Bud threw her into
second, Bud suspected that her bevel gears had lost a tooth or two,
and was eager to find out for sure.Bill
looked at his watch and suggested that they eat first before they got
all over grease by monkeying with the rear end. So they went to the
nearest restaurant and had smothered beefsteak and mashed potato and
coffee and pie, and while they ate they talked of gears and
carburetors and transmission and ignition troubles, all of which
alleviated temporarily Bud's case of cabin fever and caused him to
forget that he was married and had quarreled with his wife and had
heard a good many unkind things which his mother-in-law had said
about him.By
the time they were back in the garage and had the grease cleaned out
of the rear gears so that they could see whether they were really
burred or broken, as Bud had suspected, the twinkle was back in his
eyes, and the smiley quirk stayed at the corners of his mouth, and
when he was not talking mechanics with Bill he was whistling. He
found much lost motion and four broken teeth, and he was grease to
his eyebrows--in other words, he was happy.When
he and Bill finally shed their borrowed overalls and caps, the garage
lights were on, and the lot behind the shop was dusky. Bud sat down
on the running board and began to figure what the actual cost of the
bargain would be when Bill had put it into good mechanical condition.
New bearings, new bevel gear, new brake, lining, rebored
cylinders--they totalled a sum that made Bill gasp.By
the time Bud had proved each item an absolute necessity, and had
reached the final ejaculation: "Aw, forget it, Bill, and buy yuh
a Ford!" it was so late that he knew Marie must have given up
looking for him home to supper. She would have taken it for granted
that he had eaten down town. So, not to disappoint her, Bud did eat
down town. Then Bill wanted him to go to a movie, and after a
praiseworthy hesitation Bud yielded to temptation and went. No use
going home now, just when Marie would be rocking the kid to sleep and
wouldn't let him speak above a whisper, he told his conscience. Might
as well wait till they settled down for the night.
CHAPTER TWO. TWO MAKE A QUARREL
At
nine o'clock Bud went home. He was feeling very well satisfied with
himself for some reason which he did not try to analyze, but which
was undoubtedly his sense of having saved Bill from throwing away six
hundred dollars on a bum car; and the weight in his coat pocket of a
box of chocolates that he had bought for Marie. Poor girl, it was
kinda tough on her, all right, being tied to the house now with the
kid. Next spring when he started his run to Big Basin again, he would
get a little camp in there by the Inn, and take her along with him
when the travel wasn't too heavy. She could stay at either end of the
run, just as she took a notion. Wouldn't hurt the kid a bit--he'd be
bigger then, and the outdoors would make him grow like a pig.
Thinking of these things, Bud walked briskly, whistling as he neared
the little green house, so that Marie would know who it was, and
would not be afraid when he stepped up on the front porch.
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!