private passage; he was trotting toward a closet in one corner. He had the
privileges of the office because he was "a mill student," studying the
textile trade, and was a son of the Morrison's family physician.

Sweetsir shucked off his jumper, leaped out of his overalls, threw them in
at the closet door, and was revealed in full uniform of O. D. except for
cap and sword. He secured those two essentials of equipment from the
closet and strode toward the rail, buckling on his sword.

Miss Bunker was surveying him with telltale and proprietary pride that was
struggling with an expression of utter amazement.

"The deil-haet ails 'em a' this day!" exploded Mac Tavish. The banked
fires of his smoldering grudges blazed forth in a sudden outburst of words
that revealed the hopes he had been hiding. His natural cautiousness in
his dealings with the master went by the board. "Noo it's yer time, chief!
I'll hae at 'em--the whole fause, feth'rin' gang o' the tykes, along wi'
ye! Else it's heels o'er gowdie fer the woolen business."

Morrison flicked merely a glance of mystification at Mac Tavish. The
master's business was with his mill student. "What's wrong with you,
Danny? Hold yourself for a moment on that side of the rail where you're
still a man of the mill! I'm afraid of a soldier, like you'll be when
you're out here in the mayor's office," he explained, softening the
situation with humor. "What does it mean?"

"The whole company of the St. Ronan's Rifles has been ordered to the
armory, sir. The adjutant-general just informed me over the mill 'phone."

"What's amiss?"