But he might at least put the matter on a business basis, she reflected,
incensed, and show some degree of local pride in grabbing in with the rest
of Mr. Morrison's friends to assist in a critical situation.
And right then the situation became pointedly critical.
The broad door of the office was flung open by a chauffeur.
It was the Corson party.
Colonel Shaw was not in a mood to apologize for anybody except himself. He
rose and saluted. "Coming here to herald your call, Senator Corson, I have
been insulted by a bumptious understrapper and held in leash by an
ignorant policeman. They say it's according to a rule of the Morrison
mills. I suppose that when Mayor Morrison comes out of the mill at ten
o'clock, following his own rule, he can explain to you why he maintains
that insulting custom of his and continues this kind of an office crew to
enforce it."
Miss Bunker flung the sheet of paper that she had crumpled into a ball and
it struck Mac Tavish on the side of the head that he bent obtrusively over
his figures.
The old man snapped stiffly upright and distributed implacable stare among
the members of the newly arrived party. He was not softened by Miss
Corson's glowing beauty, nor impressed by the United States Senator's
dignity, nor won by the charming smile of Miss Corson's well-favored
squire, nor daunted by the inquiring scowl of a pompous man whose
mutton-chop whiskers mingled with the beaver fur about his neck; a
stranger who was patently prosperous and metropolitan.
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