“Cause they are rummy, Freda. They’re no good to the town. They retired before the war on enough to keep ’em at six per cent. To-day, even at seven and a half, they’re swamped by increasing taxation and the H.C.L. They’re the growlers. Did you hear about the school fracas?”
“Oh, dear; no!”
“Interested?”
“Terribly.”
“Good! The school was overcrowded; they were holding classes in the basement. Henry Dover came to me and asked if I thought the collegiate could be enlarged. Said he had eleven teachers now and needed room. Did I think it could be done? I said it was as plain as the nose on his face. It had to be done or we’d lose the pupils. But when the Board of Education put it to a vote—wow! What a wail from the retired element! Motion defeated, of course!”
“But you can’t blame them, Dad.”
“No. Admitted! I don’t blame them.”
Presently, as they turned upon Queen Street, MacDowell made a gesture toward the spectacle of broad, tarvia pavement, bulwarked on both sides with cluster lamps and high brick shops.
“Where will you find a better looking main street?” he asked, almost automatically. “And, do you know, our population, by the latest census, shows an increase of three?”
“Oh, surely, not just three!” exclaimed Freda.