"I'll grease the pans," Harry said. "The apples are ready. And there! I forgot all about the fire. This business of putting in wood every five minutes——"
She put wood into the stove, filled the kettle, stirred the beans, and greased the pans; all the while she watched the new cook as he worked.
"I'd rather organize a fresh batch of dough," he said apologetically. "Makin' it over would be like tryin' to make a cow pony out of a cayuse that's been half broke to a buggy."
In a few minutes he had the pie pans lined, and looked about him for the filling. "Apples, you said, didn't you?"
Harry pointed to a basin overflowing with dried fruit that she had soaked but had not cooked. "Those are the apples I meant to use."
Jones hesitated and grinned. "You wasn't cal'latin' to make them into a pie without bilin' 'em first? It'd be like chewin' on gun waddin! Ain't you got no canned goods?"
From the pile of groceries, dishes, chicken feed, and bedding that Rob had dumped into a corner until he could find time to put up shelves, Harry produced a can of peaches. "This place is in the worst mess," she declared. "We've been here just about two weeks, and Rob is so busy getting post holes dug while the ground is soft that he hasn't time even to think how we live."
"A homesteader has to think of his critters first. Did you say you had the garlic in those beans? They'd ought to bile some smarter if they're for dinner."
When Rob came home at noon, tired, hungry, and expecting a meal of soggy bread and experimental beans, he found dinner waiting for him; the open oven door revealed delicious brown biscuits and an odorous pie. Harry, cool and calm, was setting the table.
"So you got here at last, did you?" Rob said in greeting to Jones.