"How can I go there and tell her that?"
"Lord!"
"She cannot go to the hotel----"
"Well, I guess not! It ain't fit for her. Lum's table is hard enough on a
strong man. Landis doesn't know a good cake from a Fiji missionary
pudding. I don't expect pie is much her style, and, besides, the Palace
Hotel pies--well!--the boss was a mighty uncomplaining man, but I used to
notice his articles on field drainage got kind of sour and low-spirited
when they'd been having more than the regular allowance of pie for dinner.
She can't go there anyway; it's no use; it's after two o'clock, and the
dining-room shuts off at one. I wonder what kind of cake she likes best."
"I don't know," said the perplexed Fisbee. "If we ask her--"
"If we could sort of get it out of her diplomatically, we could telegraph
to Rouen for a good one."
"Ha!" said the other, brightening up. "You try it, Mr. Parker. I fear I
have not much skill in diplomacy, but if you----"
The compositor's mouth drooped at the corners, and he interrupted
gloomily: "But it wouldn't get here till to-morrow."
"True; it would not."
They fell into a despondent reverie, with their chins in their bosoms.
There came a cheerful voice from the next room, but to them it brought no
cheer; in their ears it sounded weak from the need of food and faint with
piteous reproach.
"Father, aren't you coming to have luncheon with me?"
"Mr. Parker, what are we to do?" whispered the old man, hoarsely.
"Is it too far to take her to Briscoes'?"
"In the rain?"
"Take her with you to Tibbs's."
"Their noon meal is long since over; and their larder is not--is not--
extensive."
"Father!" called the girl. She was stirring; they could hear her moving
about the room.
"You've got to go in and tell her," said the foreman, desperately, and
together they stumbled into the room. A small table at one end of it was
laid with a snowy cloth and there was a fragrance of tea, and, amidst
various dainties, one caught a glimpse of cold chicken and lettuce leaves.
Fisbee stopped, dumfounded, but the foreman, after stammeringly declining
an invitation to partake, alleging that his own meal awaited, sped down to
the printing-room, and seized upon Bud Tipworthy with a heavy hand.
"Where did all that come from, up there?"
"Leave go me! What 'all that'?"
"All that tea and chicken and salad and wafers--all kinds of things;
sardines, for all I know!"
"They come in Briscoes' buckboard while you was gone. Briscoes sent 'em in
a basket; I took 'em up and she set the basket under the table. You'd seen
it if you'd 'a' looked. Quit that!" And it was unjust to cuff the
perfectly innocent and mystified Bud, and worse not to tell him what the
punishment was for.