Mac Tavish held his place on his stool in silence for a long time. The
stiffness of his neck seemed to embrace all his members, even his tongue.
Miss Bunker came in from her lunch, bringing the afternoon mail. Mac
Tavish maintained his silence while Morrison picked out what were patently
his personal letters before surrendering the others to the girl to be
opened and assorted. Mac Tavish waited till his master had gone through
his personal mail. The paymaster maintained a demeanor of what may be
termed hopeful apprehension; this baiting, this impugning of honesty must
needs turn the trick! No Morrison would stand for it! Mac Tavish found the
laird's suppression of all comment promisingly bodeful. The fuse must be
sizzling. There would be an explosion!

But Morrison began to play a lively tattoo on his desk with the knob of a
paper-slitter and whistled "The Campbells Are Coming, Hurrah, Hurrah!"
with the cheery gusto of a man who had not a care to trouble him.

"Snoolin' and snirtlin' o'er it!" spat the old man.

"Eh?" queried Stewart, amiably.

"Do ye let whigmaleeries flimmer in yer noddle at a time like this?"

"Why, Andy, speaking of a day like this, you'd have the crochets whiffed
from your head if you'd go out for your lunch in the pep of the air
instead of penning yourself in the office."

Mac Tavish leaped from his stool and marched toward this non-combatant.
"Whaur's the fire o' yer spunk, Stewart Morrison?"