“That’s good,” the man responded.
“An’ the doctor’s been, an’ he says she’s doin' fine,” the child continued. “Maybe she can get up for good next week.”
“That’ll be a sight for sore eyes, won’t it, kid?” the father asked. “What you got for me to-day?”
Minnie was listening, although she was apparently gazing intently at the shop-window. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the child hand a tin dinner-pail to the man who had risen from the depths below. Then she heard the young voice particularize its contents.
“There’s roast-beef sandwiches—I made 'em myself—and pie, apple pie—I got that at the bakery—and coffee.”
“Coffee, eh?” said the man. “That’s what I want most of all. My throat’s all dried up with the dust. Guess I’d better begin on that now.” He opened the dinner-pail and took a long drink out of it. “That’s pretty good, that coffee. That went right to the spot!”
“I made it,” the child explained, proudly.
“Did you now?” he answered. “Well, it’s as good as your mother’s.” Then a bell rang down below; he pulled on one of the chains and the elevator began to go down slowly.
“So-long, kid,” he called, as his head sank to the level of the sidewalk.
“Good-by, dad,” she answered, leaning forward; “come home as early as you can. Mother’ll be so glad to see you.”