Kinney laughed. “Well, I guess folks of sedentary pursuits, like you and me, don't need it; but these fellows that stamp round in the snow all day, they want something to keep their imagination goin'. And I guess pie does it. Anyway, they can't seem to get enough of it. Ever try apples when you was at work? They say old Greeley kep' his desk full of 'em; kep' munchin' away all the while when he was writin' his editorials. And one of them German poets--I don't know but what it was old Gutty himself--kept _rotten_ ones in _his_ drawer; liked the smell of 'em. Well, there's a good deal of apple in meat-pie. May be it's the apple that does it. _I_ don't know. But I guess if your pursuits are sedentary, you better take the apple separate.” Bartley did not say anything; but he kept a lazily interested eye on Kinney as he rolled out his piecrust, fitted it into his tins, filled these from a jar of mince-meat, covered them with a sheet of dough pierced in herring-bone pattern, and marshalled them at one side ready for the oven. “If fish _is_ any better for the brain,” Kinney proceeded, “they can't complain of any want of it, at least in the salted form. They get fish-balls three times a week for breakfast, as reg'lar as Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday comes round. And Fridays I make up a sort of chowder for the Kanucks; they're Catholics, you know, and I don't believe in interferin' with _any_ man's religion, it don't matter what it is.” “You ought to be a deacon in the First Church at Equity,” said Bartley. “Is that so? Why?” asked Kinney. “Oh, they don't believe in interfering with any man's religion, either.” “Well,” said Kinney, thoughtfully, pausing with the rolling-pin in his hand, “there 'a such a thing as being _too_ liberal, I suppose.” “The world's tried the other thing a good while,” said Bartley, with cynical amusement at Kinney's arrest. It seemed to chill the flow of the good fellow's optimism, so that he assented with but lukewarm satisfaction. “Well, that's so, too,” and he made up the rest of his pies in silence. “Well,” he exclaimed at last, as if shaking himself out of an unpleasant reverie, “I guess we shall get along, somehow. Do you like pork and beans?” “Yes, I do,” said Bartley.