Over the sprightly little fire Blynn told them of Diccon.
“You know how mean I felt because I had to leave him in the lurch,” he said. “Well! Diccon was just fine about it. He said he suspected that turn of affairs all along and had prepared for it.
“What a loyal chap that Diccon is! He said his only interest was in having the post officially tendered me; he really didn’t care what I did with it. He said just what you remarked the other day, that the election would make my name valuable anywhere else I went. I told him about ‘Top-o’-the-Hill.’ He said, ‘Bully! It’ll be a great go. Put me on the trustees, will you?’”
“Let’s!” suggested Gorgas. “I like Diccon. He’s got sense. We haven’t.”
“What!” they shouted.
“We’re dreaming,” she nodded wisely. “We need his kind to prevent us soaring right up in the air like a balloon and—”
“And go bust, eh?” continued Bardek.
“Just that,” said Gorgas. “We need ballast badly.”
They could hardly eat, these dreamers, until the new idea had been incorporated. A board of advisers was drawn up to give ballast: it included Diccon, and the rector of Grace Church, the butter-and-egg man, others of the tennis-court group, and three influential “mothers.”
“We’ll get out a second edition of the prospectus,” Kate smiled her satisfaction. “That front page will look slick! We’ll charge ’em two hundred next year.”