“What robbery?” asked Alex with a giggle. “It has been discovered that there wasn’t any robbery at the pass, and that there never was any—. Well, what’s the use of talking about a thing that never took place. I wonder if Clay brought any pie along in the boxes?”
“Pie in a box—all the way from Chicago!” snorted Case. “You must think they can pie up there. But, say, how would a pie go just now?”
“That’s all you know about the haunts and habits of pie!” exclaimed Clay. “In Chicago they have a species of pie that lives in glass. When you want a bite you make a blanket of flaky dough and take it out of the glass can, and then exposure to heat brings it to life in the shape of pie! What do you know about that? Pie that lives in a glass can!”
“Did you catch some of them?” asked Alex, “because if you did I want to see one perform. Which box is he in? Hurry up, and I’ll make the flaky dough blanket in time for supper. PIE!” he added, lifting his eyes upward in a devotional attitude. “I adore pie!”
“You’ll find berry pie, and pumpkin pie, and mince pie, and apple pie sleeping peacefully in one of the boxes,” Clay replied, much to the joy of the others, who executed a fancy dance on the deck and then came back to ask more questions about the haunts and habits of pie. Whether it came out in broad daylight, or whether one had to set traps for it and catch it during the dark hours of the night. Clay only laughed and fished out a two-quart can of pumpkin, which he placed tenderly on the table.
“Be careful with him,” he smiled. “He will bite if you don’t make the dough blanket light and flaky. I have known children to need the care of a physician after being bitten by a bad pie!”
“That will do for you!” Alex responded. “When we need any one to tell us about the haunts and habits and preferences of pie we’ll let you know.”
At this latest mention of the word “pie” Captain Joe, who had been sitting gravely on the prow of the motor boat, gave a sharp yelp and came trotting into the cabin, his ears lifted—what there was of them—expectantly, his tail trying to make a great circle in the air with only a couple of inches of stub in sight. The boys laughed heartily.
“Do you recognize the word, Captain Joe?” asked Alex patting the white bulldog on the head. “I believe you do, you old scamp. Now, what kind of pie would you like for supper, old chap?” he added, talking to the dog as if he understood every word that was said to him—which was a habit the boys all had.
“I don’t think they grow pie where you came from,” Alex observed, in a moment. “Where do you think this beastie came from, Gran?” he went on.