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."