“No, it ain't,” said Phineas. “An' if you don't pay them more than you can afford they strike right at your busiest time. They could put us out of business in one year. First the farmers would strike at harvest, an' all our fruit an' wheat would go to rot. Then the flour-mill hands would strike an' the wheat get wormy an' no good. Then the bakers would strike, an' no bread in the country--we'd most likely be lynched by the mobs.” Eph thought deeply for a while, and the more he thought the more doleful he became. “Phineas,” he said, at length, “I don't know how you feel about it, but I think this American Pie business is 'most too risky to put our money into.” Phineas had also been thinking, and his face offered no encouragement. “Eph,” he said, “you're right there. If our farmers an' millers an' bakers did strike, an' folks starved to death, we'd like as not be impeached an' tried for treason or something, an' put in jail fer life, if our necks wasn't broke by a rope. I like money, but not so much as to have that happen.” “Neither do I,” said Eph; “an' I been thinkin' of another thing. Could we get our old women to go into this thing? My wife ain't so far-sighted as I be; an' just at first, until we made a million or two, we'd have to sort o' depend on them to do the bakin'.” “Well, now that you put it right at me,” said Phineas, “I dunno as my wife would take right up with it, either. She seems bound to do just the contrary to what I want her to do. But I dunno as I'd care to put money into anything while these here labor unions keep actin' up.” “I dunno as I would, either,” said Eph. “I guess mebby we'd better let this thing lay over till the labor unions sort of play out. What say?” “I reckon you're right,” agreed Phineas. “I guess we'd better mosey along with these here pies, too.” The two men arose from their shady seats, and Phineas swung his baskets upon his arms, but Eph seemed to be considering a delicate question. “That their pie I mashed,” he said at length--“I dunno what to say to my wife about it. She'll like to take my scalp off when she finds out I'm ten cents shy.” “Dog me, if I ain't glad it wasn't my pie,” said Phin, heartily. Eph coughed. “You don't reckon as mebby you could give me the loan of a dime till to-morrow, could you, Phin?” he asked. Phineas grinned. “Well, now, Eph,” he said, “I'd give it you in a minute if so be I had it; but I swan t' gracious, I ain't got a cent to my name.” THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Great American Pie Company, by Ellis Parker Butler