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.