“And we never thought of it. Never made a single arrangement. Never struck us she didn't live on keeping us dry and being good, I guess.”
“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.”