Five-dozen healthy young persons began chanting, rhythmically:
"Speech! Speech! Speech!—speech!—speech!"
Grace thought they were saying:
"His Peach! His Peach! His Peach! Peach! Peach!"
She hotly resented the intimation of H. R.'s ownership, but the sincerity of the tribute paralyzed her. The sandwich-man had been amiably told by Andrew Barrett, "Hold the pose, you slob!" and did so. His immobility was most impressive. His shield dazzled Grace. She recalled, in a flash, Geraldine Farrar.
She bowed to the sandwich, then to right and left, kissed her hand to the crowd of voters and not-yet voters, and ran blushing into the house.
The storm of applause broke loose. The very house rocked drunkenly as the sound-waves dashed themselves against the façade.
The strenuous, nerve-racking life of New York compelled the crowd to linger for an hour. It was not until they began to break off bits of the bronze railing and chip souvenirs from the portico columns that the Goodchilds' butler sent a hurry call for the police.
The lieutenant's official version was cold and formal.