III

THE MORRISON ASSUMES SOME CONTRACTS


In the past, each day after lunch, Mac Tavish had been enabled to get back
to the sanity of a well-conducted woolen-mill business; in the peace that
descended on the office afternoons he put out of his mind the nightmare of
the forenoons and tried not to think too much of what the morrows
promised.

Stewart Morrison had caused it to be known in Marion that he reserved
afternoons for the desk affairs of St. Ronan's mill.

Mac Tavish always brought his lunch; he cooked it himself in his bachelor
apartment and warmed it up in the office over a gas-burner at high noon.

While he was brushing the crumbs of an oaten cake off his desk, six men
filed in. He knew them well. They were from the Marion Chamber of
Commerce; they made up the Industrial Development Committee.

"I'm afraid we're a bit too early to see the mayor," suggested Chairman
Despeaux.

"Ye are! Nigh twenty-two hours too early to see the mayor!"

"But we 'phoned the house and were told he had left to come to the
office!"