"
Mac Tavish leaped from his stool and marched toward this non-combatant.
"Whaur's the fire o' yer spunk, Stewart Morrison?"
"Go on, Andy!" permitted the master, leaning back in his chair.
"Do ye allow such feckless loons to coom and beard ye in yer ain castle?"
"Andy, if I were playing their game, as they call it, I'd say that I'm
going to give 'em all a chance to lay their cards, face up, on the table.
But, putting it in a way you and I understand, I'm touching a match to
their goods."
Mac Tavish nodded approvingly. He did understand that metaphor. A burning
match will not ignite pure wool; threads of shoddy will catch fire.
"Aye! The fire test o' the fabric! Well and gude! But the toe o' yer boot
for 'em. Such was ca'd for when he said ye set yer ainsel' in the way for
muckle profeet!"
"Soft! Soft and slow, Andy," reproved the master. "There may be some truth
in what he said. I'll have to stop right here and do some thinking about
it! A chap gets to slamming ahead in his own line, you know. All of us
ought to stop short once in a while and make a cold, calm estimate. Take
account of stock! Balance the books! Discover how much of it is for
ourselves, personally, and how much for the other fellow! No telling how
the figures of debit and credit may surprise us!"
He spun around in his swivel chair.
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