"The mayor--mind ye, the _mayor_--he cooms frae the mill at--"

Mac Tavish remembered the crashing blow to his proud pronunciamiento that
forenoon, and his natural caution regarding statements caused him to
hesitate. "He is supposed to coom frae the mill at ten o'clock,
antemeridian! Postmeridian, Master Morrison, of St. Ronan's--not the
mayor--he cooms to his desk yon--well, when he cooms isna the concern o'
those who are speirin for a mayor."

The gentlemen of the committee exchanged wise grins, suggestively sardonic
grins, and sat down.

Mac Tavish, bristling in silence over his figures, was comforted by the
ever-springing hope that this intrusion might serve as the last straw on
the overloaded Morrison endurance.

He perked up expectantly when Stewart came striding in. Then he wilted
despondently, because Morrison greeted the gentlemen with breezy
hospitality, led them beyond the rail, and gave them chairs near his desk.

"Command me! I am at your service!"

"We're on our way to Senator Corson's. We have been invited to meet Mr.
Daunt at lunch," said Despeaux; a thin veneer of suavity suited his thin
lips.

"Fine!"

"I'm glad to hear you say so. We felt that we'd like your opinion of him
and his plans before we commit ourselves,"