They sat at the side of the little stove somewhat anxiously waiting for the result of Battersleigh’s labours.  Every once in a while Battersleigh opened the oven door and peered in.  “She isn’t brownin’ just to suit me, Ned,” he said, “but that’s the fault o’ the chimney.”  Franklin opined that this anxiety boded no certainty of genius, but kept silent.  “I’m wonderin’ if it’s right about that bakin’ powder?” said Battersleigh.  “Is it too late now, do ye think?”

“This isn’t my pie, Battersleigh,” said Franklin, “but if anything has gone wrong with those apples it’ll take more than a little diplomacy to get you out of the trouble.”

As they sat for a moment silent there came the sound of approaching hoof-beats, and presently the cracking and popping of the feet of a galloping horse fell into a duller crunch on the hard ground before the door, and a loud voice called out,

“Whoa-hope, Bronch!  Hello, in the house!”

“Come in, Curly,” cried Battersleigh.  “Come in.  We’ve business of importhance this mornin’.”

Curly opened the door a moment later, peering in cautiously, the sunshine casting a rude outline upon the floor, and his figure to those within showing silhouetted against the background of light, beleggined, befringed, and begloved after the fashion of his craft.

“How! fellers,” he said, as he stooped to enter at the low door.  “How is the world usin’ you all this bright and happy mornin’?”

“Pretty well, me friend,” said Battersleigh, his eyes on the stove, importantly.  “Sit ye down.”

Curly sat down on the edge of the bed, under whose blanket the newspapers still rattled to the touch, “Seems like you all mighty busy this mornin’,” said he.

“Yes,” said Franklin, “we’ve got business on hand now.  You can’t guess what we’re cooking.”

“No; what?”

“Pie.”

“Go ’long!”

“Yes, sir, pie,” said Franklin firmly.

Curly leaned back on the bed upon his elbow, respectful but very incredulous.

“Our cook made a pie, onct,” said he, to show himself also a man of worldly experience.  “That was down on the Cimarron, ’bout four years ago.  We et it.  I have et worse pie ‘n that, an’ I have et better.  But I never did git a chance to eat all the pie I wanted, not in my whole life.  Was you sayin’ I’m in on this here pie?”

“Certainly you are.  You wait.  It’ll be done now pretty soon,” said Franklin.

“If ye can poke a straw into thim, they’re done,” said Battersleigh oracularly.  “Curly, hand me the broom.”

Curly passed over the broom, and the two, with anxiety not unmixed with cynicism, watched Battersleigh as he made several ineffectual attempts to penetrate the armour of the pie.

“Stop lookin’ at me like a brace o’ evil-minded hyenies,” protested Battersleigh.  “Ye’d make the devil himself nervous, a-reghardin’ one so like a object o’ suspicion.  Mind ye, I’m goin’ to take it out.  There’s nothin’ at all whativver in that ijee of stickin’ it with a straw.  Moreover, these straws is shameful.”