Bud’s very soul was seared by the realization of how he had been foiled, outwitted, and manhandled by this pink-cheeked stranger--this honey-lapping interloper--this lily-fingered rival. The fellow had thrown and tethered him as though he were a yearling steer. And he had done this in Bud’s own home--in his own inviolable cove. Allston had kicked him one side like a yellow dog within the sacred precincts of his own shack and left him like a crippled pup in the dark. And Roxie had been a witness of this ignominy. But that was not all. That was enough to make a man writhe like a salted worm, but it was not all. Allston was still here. He was occupying Bud’s own living-room. He was sitting in one of Bud’s chairs. He was warming himself before Bud’s fire. And this with Bud’s own woman aiding and abetting. Gawd A’mighty! Gawd A’mighty! As the full meaning of it all burned into his brain, Bud found it as difficult to breathe as though he were being strangled. He could hear their voices from the next room, though he could not make out their words. That was worse. It left him free to imagine. They were talking about him and laughing. Gawd A’mighty! Bud strained at the ropes binding his hands--strained until the cords bit into his flesh. He tested his strong legs against the ankle straps until his muscles cramped into knots. He turned his head this way and that, his mouth open like a snapping dog, until the sweat stood out upon his thin forehead in great beads. It ran down into his narrowed eyes, burning them with salt. Here in his own shack! Here where for three generations no man had dared tread without being asked! Here in these rooms he had made ready for Roxie--she who on the morrow was to have been his bride! The egg-eyed hornyhead! He was breathing like a man who has run a mile. His big hairy chest--made deep by so many trips up and down the mountain--heaved spasmodically. It was well his heart was strong--else something might have snapped. It was carrying a heavy load. As it was there were moments when those thin lips covering that iron jaw grew first purple and then white. He could hear their voices and hear their feet when they moved. If Allston had only come out here occasionally and kicked him, he could have stood it better. But the man ignored him as though he were not there. They talked on and for all he knew held hands--in the room where the sprig of laurel stood in a bottle on the table: on the table covered with new oilcloth which he had ridden to the village to buy for her. This man was treading with his dirty feet the floor Bud had got down on his knees to clean for Roxie. And she was in there beside him.