“Come along in, father,” continued Luke.
“Here, Dick, pick up those things and bring them in.”
Dick screwed up his face and stared.
“I—I’ll pick them up, Luke, my boy,” quavered the old man, glancing at the young clerk.
“No, no; he’ll bring them in, father,” said Luke, drawing the old man into the office and into his private room, where he thrust him into the most comfortable chair, and then stood over him smiling with pleasure, seeming as if he could hardly make enough of the little, shrunken old man.
“Just come up, I suppose?” cried Luke.
“Yes, my boy, yes,” said old Michael, wiping his eyes; “but I’ve been sitting out there on the stairs these two hours.”
“Sitting out there! Why didn’t you ring?”
“I did knock, my boy, and that lad of yours said you were out, and told me to go away; and if I had known you were in all the time, my boy, I should have gone away thinking you didn’t want to see your old father. Did you tell him to say you were out, Luke?”
“The young scoundrel! no,” cried Luke.