After Mr. Fisher lost his job as a brakeman on the Katy he bought a second-hand Chevrolet sedan and drove it as a dime taxi for a while, but there wasn’t enough money in it, so he decided he would make pies.
Nobody in the neighborhood knew why he happened to think of pies; nobody asked, and he didn’t say. Mr. Fisher wasn’t a friendly man. He was big, brakeman-sized, and his neck was red and scaly. It was said he once killed a hobo with the brake club like a baseball bat he used to turn the boxcar brake wheels; he hadn’t meant to kill him, but he was loyal to the Katy; he knew his duty.