The newspaper men came crowding to the threshold.
"You have interviewed Mayor Morrison on the situation, haven't you?"
demanded the Senator, breaking in on their questions.
"Yes!"
"To-night--for the time being--for now," returned Corson, dwelling on the
point as emphatically as he had when he spoke before, "Mayor Morrison
seems to be doing very well in all that has been undertaken. I have no
statement to make--absolutely no word to say!"
He stepped back and allowed the Governor to lead the retreat; His
Excellency collided with two of the more persistent news-gatherers. With
volleyed "No! Nothing!" he marked time for the thudding of his feet.
Apparently Lana had entered into the spirit of that armed truce which, so
her father's manner informed her, was merely a rearrangement of the
battle-front. She hurried out of the chamber without even a glance in
Morrison's direction.
Stewart's grim countenance intimidated the reporters; they went away.
For a long time the mayor paced up and down the Executive Chamber, his
hands clasped behind him.
Miss Bunker thumbed the leaves of her note-book, putting on an air of
complete absorption in that matter.
Mac Tavish studied the mayor's face; Morrison was wearing that expression
which indicated a mood strange for him. Mac Tavish had seen it on the
master's face altogether too many times since the Morrison had come from
the mill in the forenoon. It was not the look he wore when matters of
business engrossed him. The old paymaster liked to see Morrison pondering
on mill affairs; it was meditation that always meant solution of
difficulties, and the solution was instantly followed by a laugh and good
cheer.
But it was plain that Morrison had not solved anything when he turned to
Mac Tavish.
"Not much like honest, real business--this, eh, Andy?"
"Naething like, sir!"
"Doesn't seem to be a polite job, either--politics--if you go in and fight
the other fellow on his own ground."
"I've e'er hated the sculch and the scalawags!"
"Totten calls this a political exigency."
"I'll no name it for mysel' in the hearing o' the lass!"
"Seems to need a lot of fancy lying when a greenhorn like me starts late
and is obliged to do things in a hurry. Gives business methods an awful
wrench, Andy!"
"Aye!" The old Scotchman was emphatic.
"In fact, in a political exigency, according to what I've found out this
evening, the quickest liar wins!" He walked to Miss Bunker's side. "You
might jot that down as sort of summing the thing up and consider the
record closed."
"Do ye think it's all closed and that ye're weel out of it?" inquired Mac
Tavish, anxiously.
"I think, Andy," drawled the mayor, a wry smile beginning to twist at the
corners of his mouth, "that I may have the militia and the people and the
politicians well out of it, but considering the mess, as it concerns me,
myself, I'm only beginning to be good and properly in it."
"Ye hae the record, as jotted by the lass, and I heard ye say naething but
what was to your credit. And the words o' the high judges! Ye're well
backed!"
"Oh, that reminds me, Andy. That boy who brought the telegrams to the
door! He'll come to the mill in the morning. Pay him ten dollars. I didn't
have the money in my clothes when I hired him."
"And that reminds me, too, Mr. Morrison!" said Miss Bunker. "Do you want
me to keep the telegrams with the record? You remember you took them when
you went out with the general."
Morrison reached into his breast pocket for the papers, tore them slowly
across, and stuffed the scraps back into a side-pocket. "I reckon they
won't do the record much good. It's more of the political exigency stuff,
Andy! I wrote 'em myself!"
His hands had touched his pipe when he had shoved the bits of paper into
his pocket. He took it out and peered into the bowl. There was tobacco
there and he fumbled for a match.
"Andy, usually I like to have morning come, for there's always business
waiting for me in the mornings and honest daylight helps any matter of
clean business. But I'm not looking ahead to this next sunrise with a
great deal of relish. Those telegrams were clinchers in the case of
Totten, but I don't know what the judges will say. What I said about
Senator Corson to the mob helped a lot--but I don't know what the Senator
is going to say in the morning. And I don't know what Governor North
proposes to say. Or what--" He checked himself and shook his head. "Well,
there's considerable going to be said, at any rate! I'll run over the
thing in my mind right now while I have time and everything is quiet. Mac
Tavish, take Miss Bunker to the car and tell Jock to carry you and her
home and to come back here for me."
After they had gone he lighted his pipe and sat down in the Governor's big
chair and smoked and pondered. Every little while he thrust his forefinger
and thumb into his vest pocket and ransacked without avail. "I must have
left it in my dress clothes," he muttered. "But no matter! I'm not in the
right frame of mind to enjoy poetry. However, merely in the way of taking
a new clinch on the proposition I do remember this much, 'But I will marry
my own first love!' There's truth in poetry if you go after it hard
enough. And, on second thought, I'd better keep my mind on poetry as
closely as I can! I certainly don't dare to think of politics right now!"