They stood knee-deep in the clutter and
lumber, facing each other abjectly.
"Well, we're both done, anyway, Mr. Fisbee," remarked the foreman.
"Indubitably, Mr. Parker," the old man answered; "it is too true."
"Never to think a blame thing about dinner for her!" Parker continued,
remorsefully. "And her a lady that can turn off copy like a rotary
snowplough in a Dakota blizzard! Did you see the sheets she's piled up on
that desk?"
"There is no cafe--nothing--in Plattville, that could prepare food worthy
of her," groaned Fisbee. "Nothing!"
"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.
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