Mac Tavish studied the mayor's face; Morrison was wearing that expression which indicated a mood strange for him. 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.