It may be added that Stewart Morrison was thirty-odd, a bachelor, dwelt
with his widowed mother in the Morrison mansion, was mayor of the city of
Marion, though he did not want to be mayor, and was chairman of the State
Water Storage Commission because he particularly wanted to be the
chairman; he was, by reason of that office, in a position where he could
rap the knuckles of those who should attempt to grab and selfishly exploit
"The People's White Coal," as he called water-power. These latter
appertaining qualifications were interesting enough, but his undeviating
observance of the mill rule of the Morrisons of St. Ronan's served more
effectively to point the matter of his character. Stewart Morrison when he
was in the mill was in it from top to bottom, from carder to spinner and
weaver, from wool-sorter to cloth-hall inspector, to make sure that the
manufacturing principles for which All-Wool Morrison stood were carried
out to the last detail.

On that January morning, as usual, he was in the mill with his sleeves
rolled up.

On his high stool in the office was Andrew Mac Tavish, his head framed in
the wicket of his desk, and the style of his beard gave him the look of a
Scotch terrier in the door of a kennel.

The office was near the street, a low building of brick, having one big
room; a narrow, covered passage connected the room with the mill. A rail
divided the office into two small parts.

According to his custom in the past few months, Mac Tavish, when he dipped
his pen, stabbed pointed glances beyond the rail and curled his lips and
made his whiskers bristle and continually looked as if he were going to