All-Wool Morrison | Page 2

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 bark; he kept his mouth shut, however.
But his silence was more baleful than any sounds he could have uttered;
it was a sort of ominous, canine silence, covering a hankering to get in
a good bite if the opportunity was ever offered.
It was the rabble o' the morning--the crowd waiting to see His Honor
the Mayor--on the other side of the rail. It was the sacrilegious invasion
of a business office in the hours sacred to business. It was like that
every morning. It was just as well that the taciturn Mac Tavish
considered that his general principle of cautious reserve applied to this
situation as it did to matters of business in general, otherwise the
explosion through that wicket some morning would have blown out the
windows. Mac Tavish did not understand politics. He did not approve
of politics. Government was all right, of course. But the game of
running it, as the politicians played the game! Bah!
He had taken it upon himself to tell the politicians of the city that
Stewart Morrison would never accept the office of mayor. Mac Tavish
had frothed at the mouth as he rolled his r's and had threshed the air
with his fist in frantic protest. Stewart Morrison was away off in the

mountains, hunting caribou on the only real vacation he had taken in
half a dozen years--and the city of Marion took advantage of a good
man, so Mac Tavish asserted, to shove him into the job of mayor; and a
brass band was at the station to meet the mayor and the howling mob
lugged him into City Hall just as he was, mackinaw jacket, jack-boots,
woolen Tam, rifle and all--and Mac Tavish hoped the master would
wing a few of 'em just to show his disapprobation. In fact, it was
allowed by the judicious observers that the new mayor did display
symptoms of desiring to pump lead into the cheering assemblage
instead of being willing to deliver a speech of acceptance.
He did not drop, as his manner indicated, all his resentment for some
weeks--and then Mac Tavish picked up the resentment and loyally
carried it for the master, in the way of outward malevolence and inner
seething. The regular joke in Marion was built around the statement
that if anybody wanted to get next to a hot Scotch in these prohibition
times, step into the St. Ronan's mill office any morning about
nine-thirty.
Up to date Mac Tavish had not thrown any paper-weights through the
wicket, though he had been collecting ammunition in that line against
the day when nothing else could express his emotions. It was in his
mind that the occasion would come when Stewart Morrison finally
reached the limit of endurance and, with the Highland chieftain's
battle-cry of the old clan, started in to clear the office, throwing his
resignation after the gang o' them! Mac Tavish would throw the
paper-weights. He wondered every day if that would be the day, and
the encouraging expectation helped him to endure.
Among those present was a young fellow with his chaps tied up; there
was a sniveling old woman who patted the young man's shoulder and
evoked protesting growls. There were shifty-eyed men who wanted to
make a touch--Mac Tavish knew the breed. There was a fat, wheezy,
pig-farm keeper who had a