He rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the heel of his boot at the stove, and put on his hat.
He turned at the door.
“Say, Ralston! It won’t be any pen-pushing job, mark you. You have to get your muscle up, for there’s something I want you to do when you are good and fit.”
“And what is that?”
“Tell you later. So long!”
A few minutes later Phil got his hat from the hall-rack and strolled leisurely out, taking the road down the hill toward the main street of the town.
He passed a red brick building which bore the aristocratic title on a large painted sign over the doorway, “Municipal Hall.” He looked at the windows. Hanging on one of them, in the inside, was a black card with gilt letters, “Mayor Brenchfield.”
Phil’s under lip shot out and his brow wrinkled. His hand travelled to his hip pocket, as a nervous man’s does when he sees a sign in a railway station, “Beware of Pickpockets.”
He swung on his heel and walked up the wooden steps into the main office, as calm and collected as could be.
“Is the Mayor in?” he asked one of the officials.