Looking up as he walked down the platform with the two men, he saw a transformed Dawes.
The little, frame station building had been a red, dingy blot beside the glistening rails that paralleled the town. It was now gaily draped with bunting—red, white, and blue—which he recognized as having been used on the occasion of the town’s anniversary celebration.
A big American flag topped the ridge of the station; other flags projected from various angles of the frame.
Most of the town’s other buildings were replicas of the station in the matter of decorations—festoons of bunting ran here and there from building to building; broad bands of it were stretched across the fronts of other buildings; gay loops of it crossed the street, suspended to form triumphal arches; flags, wreaths of laurel, Japanese lanterns, and other paraphernalia of the decorator’s art were everywhere.
Down the street near the Castle Hotel, Taylor saw transparencies, but he could not make out the words on them.
He grinned, for certainly the victor of yesterday’s election was outdoing himself.
He looked into the face of a man who stood near him on the platform—who answered his grin.
“Our new mayor is celebrating in style, eh?” he said.
“Right!” declared the man.
He was about to ask the man which candidate had been victorious—though he was certain it was Neil Norton—when he saw Marion Harlan, standing a little distance from him, smiling at him.