"
"Do ye think it's all closed and that ye're weel out of it?" inquired Mac
Tavish, anxiously.
"I think, Andy," drawled the mayor, a wry smile beginning to twist at the
corners of his mouth, "that I may have the militia and the people and the
politicians well out of it, but considering the mess, as it concerns me,
myself, I'm only beginning to be good and properly in it."
"Ye hae the record, as jotted by the lass, and I heard ye say naething but
what was to your credit. And the words o' the high judges! Ye're well
backed!"
"Oh, that reminds me, Andy. That boy who brought the telegrams to the
door! He'll come to the mill in the morning. Pay him ten dollars. I didn't
have the money in my clothes when I hired him."
"And that reminds me, too, Mr. Morrison!" said Miss Bunker. "Do you want
me to keep the telegrams with the record? You remember you took them when
you went out with the general."
Morrison reached into his breast pocket for the papers, tore them slowly
across, and stuffed the scraps back into a side-pocket. "I reckon they
won't do the record much good. It's more of the political exigency stuff,
Andy! I wrote 'em myself!"
His hands had touched his pipe when he had shoved the bits of paper into
his pocket.
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