Stewart Morrison had caused it to be known in Marion that he reserved
afternoons for the desk affairs of St. Ronan's mill.
Mac Tavish always brought his lunch; he cooked it himself in his bachelor
apartment and warmed it up in the office over a gas-burner at high noon.
While he was brushing the crumbs of an oaten cake off his desk, six men
filed in. He knew them well. They were from the Marion Chamber of
Commerce; they made up the Industrial Development Committee.
"I'm afraid we're a bit too early to see the mayor," suggested Chairman
Despeaux.
"Ye are! Nigh twenty-two hours too early to see the mayor!"
"But we 'phoned the house and were told he had left to come to the
office!"
"The mayor--mind ye, the _mayor_--he cooms frae the mill at--"
Mac Tavish remembered the crashing blow to his proud pronunciamiento that
forenoon, and his natural caution regarding statements caused him to
hesitate. "He is supposed to coom frae the mill at ten o'clock,
antemeridian! Postmeridian, Master Morrison, of St. Ronan's--not the
mayor--he cooms to his desk yon--well, when he cooms isna the concern o'
those who are speirin for a mayor."
The gentlemen of the committee exchanged wise grins, suggestively sardonic
grins, and sat down.
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