But when he says that “yet” I wasn’t worried any more. And I burst right out and told him about our trouble in Friendship Village, and about the “best” people never voting, and the city limits folks not coming in for it, and about our two candidates, and about Eppleby, that hadn’t a ghost of a show.
“Us ladies,” I wound up, “wanted to have a kind of an all-together campaign—with mass meetings of folks to kind of talk over the town, mutual. And we wanted to get up some exercises to make election day a real true day, and to roust folks up to being not so very far from the way things was meant to be. But the men folks said it wasn’t never done so. They give us that reason.”
The bird-man looked at me, and nodded. “I fancy it isn’t,” he says, “—yet.”
But he didn’t say anything else, and I thought he thought I was woman-foolish; so to cover up, I says, hasty:
“Could you leave me hear you talk a little about it? I mean about flying. It’s old to you, but it’s after-I-die to me. I never shall do it. So far I’ve never seen it. But oh, I like to hear about it. It seems the freest-feeling thing we’ve ever done.”
“To do,” he says, “it’s coldish. And it’s largely acrobatics—yet. But to see—yes, I fancy it is about the freest-feeling thing we’ve ever done. A thing,” he says my words over, smiling a little, “that makes you think you’re a step nearer to the way things were meant to be.” Then he stood still a minute, looking down at me meditative. “Has there ever been a flying-machine in Friendship Village?” he ask’ me.
“Never,” I says—and my heart stood still at what it thought of.
“And day after to-morrow is your election day?” he says over.
“Yes,” I says—and my head begun to beat like my heart wasn’t.
“The machine will be in shape by then,” he said. “Would—would you care to have me make a flight on election-day morning? Free, you know. It wouldn’t be much; but it might,” he says, with his little smile, “it might pull in a few votes from the edge of town.”