Mac Tavish had seen it on the
master's face altogether too many times since the Morrison had come from
the mill in the forenoon. It was not the look he wore when matters of
business engrossed him. The old paymaster liked to see Morrison pondering
on mill affairs; it was meditation that always meant solution of
difficulties, and the solution was instantly followed by a laugh and good
cheer.
But it was plain that Morrison had not solved anything when he turned to
Mac Tavish.
"Not much like honest, real business--this, eh, Andy?"
"Naething like, sir!"
"Doesn't seem to be a polite job, either--politics--if you go in and fight
the other fellow on his own ground."
"I've e'er hated the sculch and the scalawags!"
"Totten calls this a political exigency."
"I'll no name it for mysel' in the hearing o' the lass!"
"Seems to need a lot of fancy lying when a greenhorn like me starts late
and is obliged to do things in a hurry. Gives business methods an awful
wrench, Andy!"
"Aye!" The old Scotchman was emphatic.
"In fact, in a political exigency, according to what I've found out this
evening, the quickest liar wins!" He walked to Miss Bunker's side. "You
might jot that down as sort of summing the thing up and consider the
record closed.
Pages:
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313