PIE AND ETHICS
One morning Battersleigh was at work at his little table, engaged, as he
later explained, upon the composition of a letter to the London Times,
descriptive of the Agrarian Situation in the United States of America,
when he was interrupted by a knock at his door.
"Come in, come in, Ned, me boy," he exclaimed, as he threw open the door
and recognised his visitor. "What's the news this mornin'?"
"News?" said Franklin gaily, holding his hands behind his back. "I've
news that you can't guess--good news."
"You don't mean to tell me they've moved the land office into Ellisville,
do you, Ned?"
"Oh, no, better than that."
"You've not discovered gold on your quarter section, perchance?"
"Guess again--it's better than that."
"I'll give it up. But leave me a look at your hands."
"Yes," said Franklin, "I'll give you a look, and one more guess." He
held up a small bag before Battersleigh's face.
"It's not potatoes, Ned?" said Battersleigh in an awed tone of voice.
Franklin laughed.
"No; better than that," he said.
"Ned," said Battersleigh, "do ye mind if I have a bit smell of that bag?"
"Certainly," said Franklin, "you may have a smell, if you'll promise to
keep your hands off."
Battersleigh approached his face to the bag and snuffed at it once,
twice, thrice, as though his senses needed confirmation. He straightened
up and looked Franklin in the face.
"Ned," said he, his voice sinking almost to a whisper, "it's--it's
apples!"
"Right," said Franklin. "And isn't that news?"
"The best that could be, and the hardest to believe," said Battersleigh.
"Where'd you get thim, and how?"
"By diplomacy," said Franklin. "Morrison, one of the transit men of the
engineers, was home in Missouri for a visit, and yesterday he came back
and brought a sack of apples with him. He was so careless that he let
the secret out, and in less than half an hour he had lost two thirds of
his sack of apples--the boys wheedled them out of him, or stole them. At
last he put the bag, with what was left of the apples, in the safe at the
hotel, and left orders that no one should have even a look at them. I
went out and sent a man in to tell the clerk that he was wanted at the
depot, and while he was away I looted the safe--it wasn't locked--and ran
for it. It was legitimate, wasn't it? I gave Sam one big red apple, for
I knew he would rather have it, to give to his Nora, the waiter girl,
than the best horse and saddle on the range. The rest--behold them!
Tell me, do you know how to make a pie?"
"Ned," said Battersleigh, looking at him with an injured air, "do you
suppose I've campaigned all me life and not learned the simplest form of
cookin'? Pie? Why, man, I'll lay you a half section of land to a saddle
blanket I'll make ye the best pie that ever ye set eye upon in all your
life. Pie, indeed, is it?"
"Well," said Franklin, "you take some risks, but we'll chance it. Go
ahead. We'll just save out two or three apples for immediate
consumption, and not put all our eggs in one basket."
"Wisely spoken, me boy," said Battersleigh. "Ye're a thrue conservative.
But now, just ye watch Batty while he goes to work."
Battersleigh busied himself about the little box which made his cupboard,
and soon had out what he called his "ingraydeyints."
"Of course, ye've to take a little flour," he said, "that's for the
osseous structure, so to speak. Ye've to add a little grease of some
sort, lard or butter, an' we've nayther; the bacon fat'll do, methinks.
Of course, there's the bakin' powder. Fer I've always noticed that when
ye take flour ye take also bakin' powder. Salt? No, I'm sure there's no
salt goes in at all; that's against reason, an' ye'll notice that the
principles of philosophy go into all the ways of life. And, lastly,
makin', as I may say, the roundin' out of the muscular and adipose tissue
of the crayture, as the sowl of the pie we must have the apples. It's a
sin to waste 'em peelin'; but I think they used to peel 'em, too. And
ye've to put in sugar, at laste a couple o' spoons full. Now observe. I
roll out this dough--it's odd-actin' stuff, but it's mere idiosyncrashy
on its part--I roll this out with a bottle, flat and fine; and I put into
this pan, here, ye'll see. Then in goes the intayrior contints, cut in
pieces, ye'll see. Now, thin, over the top of the whole I sprid this
thin blanket of dough, thus. And see me thrim off the edges about the
tin with me knife. And now I dint in the shircumference with me thumb,
the same as July Trelawney did in the Ould Tinth. And there ye are,
done, me pie, an' may God have mercy on your sowl!--Ned, build up the
fire."
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."
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.
"But say, fellers," he said, "I plumb forgot what I come over here for.
They's goin' to be a dance over to town, an' I come to tell you about it.
O' course you'll come."
"What sort of a dance can it be, man?" said Battersleigh.
"Why, a plumb dandy dance; reg'lar high-steppin' outfit; _mucha baille_;
best thing ever was in this settlement."
"I'm curious to know where the ladies will come from," said Franklin.
"Don't you never worry," rejoined Curly. "They's plenty o' women-folks.
Why, there's the section boss, his wife--you know her--she does the
washin' for most everybody. There's Nora, Sam's girl, the head waiter;
an' Mary, the red-headed girl; an' Kitty, the littlest waiter girl; an'
the new grocery man's wife; an' Hank Peterson's wife, from down to his
ranch. Oh, there'll be plenty o' ladies, don't you never doubt. Why,
say, Sam, he told me, last time he went down to Plum Centre, he was goin'
to ask Major Buford an' his wife, an' the gal that's stayin' with
them--tall gal, fine looker--why, Sam, he said he would ast them, an'
maybe they'd come up to the dance--who knows? Sam, he says that gal
ain't no common sort--whole outfit's a puzzler to him, he says, Sam does."
"And when does this all happen, Curly, boy?" asked Battersleigh.
"Why, night after to-morrer night, to the big stone hotel. They're goin'
to clean out the dinin'-room for us. Three niggers, two fiddlers, an' a
'cordion--oh, we'll have music all right! You'll be over, of course?"
"That we will, me boy," responded Battersleigh. "It's mesilf will
inthrojuce Captain Franklin to his first haythin ball. Our life on the
claim's elevatin', for it leaves time for thought, but it is a bit slow
at times. An' will we come? Man, we'll be the first."
"Well, then, so long, fellers," said Curly. "I got to be movin' along a
little. See you at the dance, sure."
"Now, as to a ball, Battersleigh," said Franklin, argumentatively, when
they were alone, "how can I go? I've not the first decent thing to wear
to such a place."
"Tut, tut!" said Battersleigh. "There speaks the coxcombry of youth. I
make no doubt ye'd be the best-dressed man there if ye'd go as ye stand
now. But what about Batty? On me honour, Ned, I've never been so low in
kit as I am this season here, not since I was lance sergeant in the
Tinth. You're able to pull out your blue uniform, I know, an' b'gad! the
uniform of an officer is full dress the worrld over! Look at Batty, half
mufti, and his allowance a bit late, me boy. But does Batty despair? By
no means. 'Tis at times like this that gaynius rises to the occasion."
Franklin grinned amiably. "Thank you for the suggestion about the
uniform, at least," he said. "Now, if we can fix you up as well."
Battersleigh came and stood before him, waving a long forefinger.
"Listen to me, Ned," he began, "an' I'll lay down to ye a few of the
fundamental rules of conduct and appar'l.
"A gintleman never lies; a gintleman never uses unseemly haste; a
gintleman is always ready for love and ready for war--for, Ned, me boy,
without love and war we'd miss the only two joys of life. Thereto, a
gintleman must shoot, fence, ride, dance, and do anny of 'em like a
gintleman. For outwardly appar'l, seein' him clane within, me boy, a
gintleman should make the best of what he finds about him. I have slept
sweet in turban or burnous in me time. Dress is nothing that we may
always control. But if ye found yeself a bit low in kit, as Batty is
this day, what would ye say, Ned, me boy, was the first salient--what is
the first essintial in the dress of a gintleman, me boy?"
"Linen," said Franklin, "or is it gloves?"
"Ned," said Battersleigh solemnly, laying a hand upon his shoulder,
"ye're the dearest boy in the world. Ye're fit to be lance sergeant
yersilf in the ould Tinth Rigiment. Right ye are, quite right. White,
white, me boy, is the first colour of a gintleman! White, to show the
integrity of his honour and the claneness of his merit roll. Shure, he
must have his weapons, and his horse--for a gintleman always rides--and
his hat and gloves are matter of course. But, first of all, essintial to
him as the soap and crash, is white, sir--yes, white! A touch of white
at neck and wrist anny gintleman must show who presints himself at a
ball."
"But, now, how?"
Battersleigh pointed a long finger at Franklin, then turned it upon
himself, tapping with import upon his forehead. "Look at me, at Batty,"
he said. "Here is where gaynius comes in, me friend. I may be far from
the home that bore me--God prosper them that knows it now!--and I may be
a bit behind with me allowance; but never yet was Batty without the arms
and the appar'l of a gintleman. Ned, come with me."
Grasping his companion by the arm, Battersleigh stepped outside the
house, and strode off with long steps across the prairie. "Come," he
said, as one who commanded alike secrecy and despatch. Humouring him,
Franklin followed for a quarter of a mile. Then, bending his gaze in the
direction of the march, he saw afar, fluttering like a signal of distress
in the engulfing sea about, a little whipping flag of white, which was
upheld by the gaunt hand of a ragged sage bush. This, as he drew near,
he discovered to be a portion of an old flour sack, washed clean and left
bleaching in the sun and wind until it had assumed a colour a shade more
pure than its original dinginess.
Battersleigh made dramatic approach. "There!" said he, pointing with
triumphant dignity to the fluttering rag.
"Yes, I see," said Franklin, "but what do you want of this piece of sack?"
"Sack!" cried Battersleigh, offended. "'Sack!' say you, but I say,
'White!' Look ye, the history of a man is something sacred. 'Sack!' say
you, but I say, 'White!' A strip of this at me neck and at me wrist; me
hat, an' me sabre and me ridin' whip--I r-ride up to the dure. I
dismount. I throw me rein to the man. I inter the hall and place me hat
and gloves in order as they should be. I appear--Battersleigh, a
gintleman, appears, standin' in the dure, the eyes of all upon him. I
bow, salutin', standin' there, alone, short on allowance, but nate and
with me own silf-respect. Battersleigh, a bit low in kit and in
allowance, with white at neck and wrist, bows, and he says, 'Ladies and
gintlemen, Battersleigh is here!'"