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Mort's one of the best fellows on earth; you won't find anybody out here in Fraser County to say anything against Mort Bassett. No, sir; by God!" Again the ponderous frame shook; again the mysterious look came into the man's curious small eyes, and Harwood witnessed another seismic disturbance in the bulk before him; then the Honorable Isaac Pettit grew serious.
If he had ever laid any claim to dignity and self-possession, they both deserted him now. Utterly bereft of speech, he stood for a moment as if petrified. Then approaching Lyle, he stammered: "I beg your pardon, Miss, Miss Washburn, but that is always Mort's way, to spring anything on me in such a fashion as to knock me out completely.
You may have noticed his name printed on most everything but the undertaker's and the jail as you came up from the station. The elevator and the bank he inherited from his pap. Mort's got a finger in most everything 'round here." "Owns everything," said Harwood, with an attempt at facetiousness, "except the brewery." Mr.
You see," he continued, idling about the room, "Mort's in the newspapers a good deal, and not being any such terrible sinner as he is I don't care to have his labels tacked on me too much. Not that Mort isn't one of my best friends, you know; but a family man like me has got to be careful of his reputation." Harwood opened his drawer and took out a box of cigars.
"I won't," I promised. "I'm kind of particular where I spit." Things must be looking pretty rough around Municipal Building, I thought. Maybe Mort's afraid the people will start running Fenris again, after this. He might even be afraid there'd be an election.
Great Scott!" exclaimed Rutherford, springing to his feet, "why I remember that name well; he was Mort's best friend. You don't mean to say you are the same? Why, I thought you said you were from Chicago!" "I was from Chicago, when you met me," answered Houston, smiling, "but I had come from New York less than ten days before."
"A man of rectitude enshrined in the hearts of his fellow-citizens, popular and all that?" suggested Harwood. Yes. Mort rather retains his heat, I guess. Some say he's cold as ice. His ice is the kind that freezes to what he likes. Mort's a gentleman if we have one in Fraser County.
It looks as if it were ready to fly or to sing. I selected the trimming for sister May's new hat too. It is brown velvet and has an oriole on it; you know they are so showy and bright it makes you almost think you are in the woods. At Madame Oiseau Mort's, where I get my millinery, there was another hat I had a notion to take.
"Sure I can. Decent people. There are a lot of them around, but Mort Hallstock isn't one of them. There was an Old Terran politician named Al Smith, once. He had a little saying he used in that kind of case: 'Let's look at the record." "Well, Mort's record isn't very impressive, I'll give you that," Dad admitted. "I understand Mort's up at the fire now. Don't spit in his eye if you run into him."
A groan was wrenched from between his teeth. "Hurt? How?" Johnny inquired, dully. It seemed very ridiculous to see that strong man kicking around in the snow. "I've ripped something loose here." Mort's palms were pressed in upon his groin, his fingers were clutching something. "Ruptured I guess." He tried again to rise, but sank back. His cap had fallen off and his forehead glistened with sweat.
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