Some men got killed and their widows started boarding-houses.

Here we workers fed on proper pie, and we soon changed this wooden land into a land of iron.

Now the pie is passing out and we are feeding on French pastry.

Is our downfall at hand?
Life in the Pie Boarding-House was a never-ending delight.

You never knew when you sat down at the table what kind of pie would be dealt you.
Some of the fellows had been there half a year and swore that they had seen fifty-seven varieties and were expecting new ones at any meal.