“It rests with you, Io,” he said quietly.
At once she took flight. “Am I to be keeper of your spirit?” she protested. “It’s bad enough to be your professional adviser. Why don’t you invite a crowd of us down to get the election returns?” she suggested.
“Make up your party,” assented Banneker. “Keep it small; say a dozen, and we can use my office.”
On the fateful evening there duly appeared Io with a group of a dozen friends. 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: