ir little souls was white enough,
even if their bodies wasn't rid of a month's dirt. I tell you, Rocky
Springs 'ud get pious right away under the influence of bird's-eye
maple. Maybe they'd be fighting drunk later, but that don't cut no
ice. You see, it's sort o' natural to 'em. Still, the church would
have done 'em some good if only it kept 'em a few seconds from doing
somebody or something a personal injury."

Billy was chafing at his friend's monopoly of the talk and promptly
seized the opportunity of belittling his opinions.

"What's the use," he cried. "I'm with Miss Kate. Charlie's done right
in fixing on red pine lining. Art's art, an' if you're goin' to be
artistic, why, you just got to match things same as you'd match a team
of horses, same as a woman does her fixings. 'Tain't good to mix
anything. Not even drinks. Red pine goes with raw logs. Say, there's
art in everything. Beans goes with pork; cabbage with corned beef. But
you don't never eat ice cream with sowbelly. Everybody hates winter.
Why for do folks fix 'emselves like funeral mutes in winter? It's just
the artistic mind in 'em. They'd hate flying in the face of Providence
by cheerin' themselves up with a bit of color. Art is art, Dy, my boy;
maybe art ain't in your line, seein' you're a Government servant.
Ther' ain't nothin' but red pine for the inside of that church, or all
art's bust to hell. Start the folks in this city off on notions
inspired by anemic woodwork, an' the sight o' so much purity would set
'em off sniveling on their women-folk's bosoms, and give 'emselves
internal chills shoutin' fer ice water at O'Brien's bar. You'd set
the boys so all-fired good-natured they'd give 'emselves up fer the
crimes they never committed, or they'd be startin' up a weekly funeral
club so as to be sure of a Christian burial anyway. You'd upset the
harmony o' Rocky Springs something terrible. Bird's-eye
maple--nothin'. Ain't that so, Miss Kate?"

Kate laughed outright.

"I can't quite follow all the arguments," she said, cautiously.
"But--but--it sounds all right."

"Sure," agreed Billy, complacently.

But Dy was not yet defeated.

"I'm arguin' architecture," he said doggedly. "Here," he indicated
the length of the main building, "I don't care a cuss about your art.
What about this? Where's the tree grown hereabouts tall enough to
give us a ridge pole for this roof? It means a join in the ridge
pole. That's what it means. And that ain't architectu