Andrew Barrett was immediately behind the herald of the free and intelligent people of the greatest city of the New World. A hush fell on the multitude. "Speech!" shrieked Andrew Barrett. "Speech!" shrieked twelve hundred and thirty-eight intelligent New-Yorkers and seven bankers. "There's Bishop Phillipson!" shrilled a correctly gowned elderly lady, pointing a jeweled lorgnette at the Bishop of New York. It meant the Church approved. "Hooray for the Bishop! Bishop! Bishop!" "_Vox populi, vox Dei_," murmured the Bishop to himself. "Say something, my child," he gently urged Grace. "After all, we may dislike the way it is done, but if the hungry are fed we may be forgiven." Grace Goodchild burned with desire to make a wonderful speech to prove that her greatness was her very own. They wanted her, not H. R., this time! It was _her_ triumph, not his. Alas! She did not know what to say. She did not even know how to say it. She therefore shook her head angrily. "Speech!" shouted the crowd, twice as vehemently as before. They always want to hear what you don't wish to say. The cameras were clicking away madly. They sounded like the telegraph-room of a national convention. 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. XXI The Public Menu Commission had been having pitched battles. The Public Sentiment Corps had been bombarding the newspapers with letters asking for the official menu, but the commission refused to be hurried by popular clamor, and said so to the reporters. Their own sessions were held behind locked doors. Omelette soufflée au curaçoa was definitely stricken off Signor Piccolini's tentative menu, on the theory that the filling was not permanent. "Air is cheap," protested Piccolini, "and we have to consider the expense." "But we want something that will stay by the hungry more than fifteen minutes." "Then," said Piccolini, scathingly, "give them sliced rubber boots."