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." The others watched him eagerly as he removed the hot tin from the oven and set it upon the bare table. "I'm thinkin' it looks a bit dumpish midships, Ned," said Battersleigh dubiously. "But there's one thing shure, ye'll find all the apples in it, for I've watched the stove door meself, and there's been no possibility fer them to escape. And of course ye'll not forgit that the apples is the main thing in an apple pie. The crust is merely a secondary matter." Battersleigh said this in an airy manner which disarmed criticism. Curly drew his clasp knife from his pocket and cut into the portion assigned to him. Franklin was reserved, but Curly attained enthusiasm at the second bite. "Rile Irish," said he, "I'm not so sure you're such a h----l of a military man, but as a cook you're a burnin' success. You kin sign with our outfit tomorrer if you want to. Man, if I could bake pie like that, I'd break the Bar O outfit before the season was over! An' if I ever could git all the pie I wanted to eat, I wouldn't care how quick after that I fanned out. This here is the real thing. That pie that our cook made on the Cimarron--why, it was made of dried apples. Why didn't you tell me you had real apples?" The pie, startling as it was in some regards, did not long survive the determined assault made upon it. Curly wiped his knife on the leg of his "chaps" and his mouth on the back of his hand.