All-Wool Morrison | Page 5

all owt but the wool business.
To Auld Hornie wi' the wool business! Politeeks and socieety! Lass, are
ye gone daffie wi' the rest?"
"Hush, Daddy Mac! Don't raise your voice in your temper. What if he
should still be in love with Miss Lana, spite of her being away among
the great folks all this long time?"
Mac Tavish was holding the paper-weights. He banged them down on
his desk and shoved his nose close to hers. "Fash me nae mair wi' your
silly talk o' love, in business hours! If aye he wanted her when she was

here at hame and safe and sensible, the Morrison o' the Morrisons had
only to reach his hand to her and say, 'Coom, lass!' But noo that she is
back wi' head high and notions alaft, he'd no accept her! She's nowt but
a draft signed by Sham o' Shoddy and sent through the Bank o' Brag
and Blaw! No! He'd no' accept her! And now back wi' ye to yer
tickety-tack! I hae my orders, and the Queen o' Sheba might yammer
and be no' the gainer!"
Miss Bunker swept up the sheet of blank paper with a vicious dab and
went back to her work, crumpling it. Passing the hat-tree, she was
tempted to grab the Morrison's coat and waistcoat and run into the mill
with them, dodging Mac Tavish and his paper-weights in spite of what
she knew of his threats regarding the use he proposed to make of them
in case of need. She believed that Miss Lana Corson would come to the
office with the others who were riding in the automobile. She had her
own special cares and a truly feminine apprehension in this matter, and
she believed that the young man, who was one of the guests at the
reopened Corson mansion on Corson Hill, was a suitor, just as Marion
gossip asserted he was.
Miss Bunker had two good eyes in her head and womanly intuitiveness
in her soul, and she had read three times into empty air a dictated letter
while Stewart Morrison looked past her in the direction which the
Corson car had taken that first day when Lana Corson had shown
herself on the street.
And here was that stiff-necked old watch-dog callously laying his corns
so that Stewart Morrison would appear to be boor enough to allow a
young lady to wait along with that unspeakable rabble; and when he did
come he would arrive in his shirt-sleeves to be matched up against a
handsome young man in an Astrakhan top-coat! Under those
circumstances, what view would Miss Lana Corson take of the man
who had stayed in Marion? Miss Bunker was profoundly certain that
Mac Tavish did not know what love was and never did understand and
could not be enlightened at that period in his life. But he might at least
put the matter on a business basis, she reflected, incensed, and show
some degree of local pride in grabbing in with the rest of Mr.

Morrison's friends to assist in a critical situation.
And right then the situation became pointedly critical.
The broad door of the office was flung open by a chauffeur.
It was the Corson party.
Colonel Shaw was not in a mood to apologize for anybody except
himself. He rose and saluted. "Coming here to herald your call, Senator
Corson, I have been insulted by a bumptious understrapper and held in
leash by an ignorant policeman. They say it's according to a rule of the
Morrison mills. I suppose that when Mayor Morrison comes out of the
mill at ten o'clock, following his own rule, he can explain to you why
he maintains that insulting custom of his and continues this kind of an
office crew to enforce it."
Miss Bunker flung the sheet of paper that she had crumpled into a ball
and it struck Mac Tavish on the side of the head that he bent
obtrusively over his figures.
The old man snapped stiffly upright and distributed implacable stare
among the members of the newly arrived party. He was not softened by
Miss Corson's glowing beauty, nor impressed by the United States
Senator's dignity, nor won by the charming smile of Miss Corson's
well-favored squire, nor daunted by the inquiring scowl of a pompous
man whose mutton-chop whiskers mingled with the beaver fur about
his neck; a stranger who was patently prosperous and metropolitan.
Furthermore, Mac Tavish, undaunted, promptly dared to exchange
growls with "Old Dog Tray," himself. The latter, none else than His
Excellency, Lawrence North, Governor of the state, marched toward
the wicket, wagging his tail, but the wagging was not a display of
amiability. The politicians called North "Old Dog Tray" because his
permanent limp caused his coattails to sway