Though in the late fifties, his years had touched him lightly; but
John Barleycorn had not been so considerate. Bryce noted that
McTavish was carrying some thirty pounds of whiskey fat and that the
pupils of his fierce blue eyes were permanently distended, showing
that alcohol had begun to affect his brain. His hands trembled as he
stood before Bryce, smiling fatuously and plucking at the cuffs of
his mackinaw. The latter realized that McTavish was waiting for him
to broach the object of the visit; so with an effort he decided to
begin the disagreeable task.
"Mac, did Moira give you my message?"
"Aye."
"Well, I guess we understand each other, Mac. Was there something
else you wanted to see me about?"
McTavish sidled up to the desk. "Ye'll no be firin' auld Mac oot o'
hand?" he pleaded hopefully. "Mon, ha ye the heart to do it--after a'
these years?"
Bryce nodded. "If you have the heart--after all these years--to draw
pay you do not earn, then I have the heart to put a better man in
your place."
"Ye was ever a laddie to hae your bit joke."
"It's no good arguing, Mac. You're off the pay-roll onto the pension-
roll--your shanty in the woods, your meals at the camp kitchen, your
clothing and tobacco that I send out to you. Neither more nor less!"
He reached into his desk and drew forth a check.
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