From the first, it was a time of triumph. Laird took the lead
and kept it. By midnight, the result was a certainty. In a balcony
speech from his headquarters the victor had given generous recognition
for his success to The Patriot, mentioning Banneker by name. When the
report reached them Esther Forbes solemnly crowned the host with a
wreath composed of the "flimsy" on which the rescript of the speech had
come in.
"Skoal to Ban!" she cried. "Maker of kings and mayors and things. Skoal!
As you're a viking or something of the sort, the Norse salutation is
appropriate."
"It ought to be Danish to be accurate," he smiled.
"Well, that's a hardy, seafaring race," she chattered. "And that reminds
me. Come on out to the South Seas with us."
"Charmed," he returned. "When do we start? To-morrow?"
"Oh, I'm not joking. You've certainly earned a vacation. And of course
you needn't enlist for the whole six months if that is too long. Dad has
let me have the yacht. There'll only be a dozen. Io's going along."
Banneker shot one startled, incredulous look at Io Eyre, and instantly
commanded himself, to the point of controlling his voice to gayety as he
replied:
"And who would tell the new mayor how he should run the city, if I
deserted him? No, Esther, I'm afraid I'm chained to this desk.
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