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On this day, however, Big Medicine unthinkingly cut into a fresh-baked pie set out to cool. There were other pies, and in cutting one Big Medicine was supported by precedent; but Patsy chose to consider it an affront and snatched the pie from under Big Medicine’s very nose.

“You fellers vot iss always gobbling yet, you iss quit it alreatty!” rumbled Patsy, bearing the pie into the tent with Big Medicine’s knife still lying buried in the lately released juice. “I vork und vork mine head off keeping you fellers filled oop tree times a day alreatty; I not vork und vork to feed you effery hour, py cosh. You go mitout till supper iss reaty for you yet.”

Big Medicine, his frog-like eyes standing out from his sun-reddened face, stared agape. “Well, by cripes!” He hesitated, looking about him; but whether his search was for more pie or for moral support he did not say. Truth to tell, there was plenty of both. He reached for another pie and another knife, and he grinned his wide grin at Irish, who had just come up. “Dutchy’s trying to run a whizzer,” he remarked, cutting a defiant gash clean across the second pie. “What do yuh know about that?”

“He’s often took that way,” said Irish soothingly. “You don’t want all that pie–give me about half of it.”

Big Medicine, his mouth too full for coherent utterance, waved his hand and his knife toward the shelf at the back of the mess-wagon where three more pies sat steaming in the shade. “Help yourself,” he invited juicily when he could speak.

Those familiar with camp life in the summer have perhaps observed the miraculous manner in which a million or so “yellow-jackets” will come swarming around when one opens a can of fruit or uncovers the sugar jar. It was like that. Irish helped himself without any hesitation whatever, and he had not taken a mouthful before Happy Jack, Weary and Pink were buzzing around for all the world like the “yellow-jackets” mentioned before. Patsy buzzed also, but no one paid the slightest attention until the last mouthful of the last pie was placed in retirement where it would be most appreciated. Then Weary became aware of Patsy and his wrath, and turned to him pacifically.

“Oh, yuh don’t want to worry none about the pie,” he smiled winningly at him. “Mamma! How do you expect to keep pies around this camp when yuh go right on making such good ones? Yuh hadn’t ought to be such a crackajack of a cook, Patsy, if you don’t want folks to eat themselves sick.”

If any man among them could have soothed Patsy, Weary would certainly have been the man; for next to Chip he was Patsy’s favorite. To say that he failed is only one way of making plain how great was Patsy’s indignation.

“Aw, yuh made ’em to be eat, didn’t yuh?” argued Happy Jack. “What difference does it make whether we eat ’em now or two hours from now?”

Patsy tried to tell them the difference. He called his hands and his head to help his rage-tangled tongue and he managed to make himself very well understood. They did not argue the fine point of gastronomic ethics which he raised, though they felt that his position was not unassailable and his ultimate victory not assured.

Instead, they peered into boxes and cans which were covered, gleaned a whole box of seeded raisins and some shredded cocoanut just to tease him and retired to wrangle ostentatiously over their treasure trove in the shade of the bed-tent, leaving Patsy to his anger and his empty tins.

Other men straggled in, drifted with the tide of their appetites to the cook-tent, hovered there briefly and retired vanquished and still hungry. They invariably came over to the little group which was munching raisins and cocoanut and asked accusing questions. What was the matter with Patsy? Who had put him on the fight like that? and other inquiries upon the same subject.