Rafe cooked in his little kitchen for the poor folk of the town, charging small prices such as they could pay. Indeed, often as not he gave away what he had cooked for himself to some one who seemed hungrier. This is a poor way to make profit of gold, but an excellent way to make profit of affection. And Rafe was rich in the love of the whole town. Roger was among the cooks whom the Lord Mayor summoned to consult about the King's Pie. But Rafe knew nothing at all of it, until one afternoon he was surprised by a visit from his brother, who had not darkened his door for many a day. "Well, Brother," said Roger, briefly, "I suppose you are not busy, as I am. Will you work for me for a day or two? In fact, I need you." "You need me!" said Rafe, in surprise. "How can that be, Brother?" "I have a great task at hand," said the master-cook; "a task that needs extra help. You must come. Your own work can wait well enough, I judge." Rafe hesitated. "I must cook for my poor people first," he said. Roger sneered. "Your poor people, indeed! I am cooking for the King! Will you hesitate now?" "Cooking for the King!" cried Rafe. "Ah, but he is not so hungry as my neighbors will be to-morrow without their rabbit-pies." "Rabbit-pies! It is a pie for the King that I am making!" shouted Roger, in high dudgeon,--"such a pie as you and your louts never dreamed of. Now what say you? Will you come?" "I must do my own small cooking first," said Rafe firmly. "Very well then," growled Roger. "Cook for your beggars first; but come to me to-morrow. Every cook in town but you is engaged. I must have your help." "I will come," said Rafe simply, and Roger bade him a surly good-bye without thanks or promises. The next morning, when his own simple tasks were done, Rafe hied him to his brother's kitchen, and there he found great doings. Roger was superintending the preparations for baking an enormous pie. A group of masons had just finished building the huge oven out of doors, and about a score of smiths were struggling with the pie-dish, which they had forged of iron. It was a circular dish six feet across and three feet deep; and it looked more like a swimming-tank than anything else. Rafe stared in amazement. "Is that to hold your pie, Brother?" he asked. "Yes!" growled Roger. "Now get to work with the other men, for the crust must be baked this morning." Three assistant cooks in caps and aprons were busy sifting buckets of flour, measuring out handfuls of salt and butter. Others were practicing with long rolling-pins made for the occasion, so big that a man had to roll at each end. On the ground lay a great round piece of tin, six feet across, pierced full of holes. "What is that?" whispered Rafe to one of his fellow cooks. "That is to be the lid of the pie," answered the cook. "See, they are lifting it onto the dish now. It will have a strong hinge, and it will be covered with crust."