Young
Murchison's name would be so unlooked-for that if he,
Farquharson, could succeed in imposing it upon the party
it would be almost like making a personal choice of his
successor, a grateful idea in abdication. Farquharson
wished regretfully that Lorne had another five years to
his credit in the Liberal record of South Fox. By the
time the young fellow had earned them he, the retiring
member, would be quite on the shelf, if in no completer
oblivion; he could not expect much of a voice in any
nomination five years hence. He sighed to think of it.
It was at that point of his meditations that Mr Farquharson
met Squire Ormiston on the steps of the Bank of British
North America, an old-fashioned building with an appearance
of dignity and probity, a look of having been founded
long ago upon principles which raised it above fluctuation,
exactly the place in which Mr Farquharson and Squire
Ormiston might be expected to meet. The two men, though
politically opposed, were excellent friends; they greeted
cordially.
"So you're ordered out of politics, Farquharson?" said
the squire. "We're all sorry for that, you know."
"I'm afraid so; I'm afraid so. Thanks for your letter--very
friendly of you, squire. I don't like it--no use pretending
I do--but it seems I've got to take a rest if I want to
be known as a going concern.
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