Father physically scooped son aboard the double-decker omnibus “Governor Johnson”, the pride of Lafayette and product of its own Hart, Thomas and Company. It was crowded this day, top to bottom, and all passengers were dressed in unaccustomed finery. “But, Father...,” panted young John, “... why are we ... where are we...?” Both struggled into the packed lower section of the “Governor Johnson” and sandwiched into seats. Blowing hard, the elder Layton withdrew a large linen handkerchief and mopped his brow. In February! Then he answered his son. “It is a day in history, lad. You’ll see. ’Tis a memory of it I want you to have. Whew!” It was close inside the “Governor Johnson”. The rocky ride on the mule car compounded the effort of John Layton, Sr., to regain composure. Someone opened a window, but little breeze was generated by the four-mile-per-hour clop, clop, clop of the two scrawny mules. Father knew he still owed son an explanation. “You see, my boy, we live—or have lived to this very day—in Lafayette City, a distinct and separate city of our own people, our own mayor, our own police, God bless ’em all. But this day, as I said, boy, is historic. The mayor and city fathers in their wisdom, have seen fit to join us to the city of New Orleans by law, as we have long been in fact. Nothing but an imaginary line on the downtown side of Felicity Road has divided us before. Now we will become one. You will see. A wedding you will witness, a wedding of two cities.... ’Til death us do part.” Layton _père_ was warming up to the occasion and rather enjoying the attention of the crowd which smiled benignly at his efforts. By this time the mule car had come to a stop at Magazine Street where several people got on, further packing the omnibus until passengers were hanging on the stairs outside. As the car started up again, faint sounds of music, a brass band, were heard, coming from the center of the city’s activity. “It’s a great day, isn’t it, Mr. Layton?” said a red-faced man from behind a well-starched collar, sitting next to them, “becoming the fourth district of New Orleans, and all that.” “That it is, sir, now that we can be sure the new city government will treat us properly. That’s why we held off before, you know. They assume our indebtedness, $504,800, I believe, and we share in their expenses and in the McDonogh fund—all in proportion, as it should be. No one can complain now.” As the omnibus crossed Laurel, young John glanced anxiously to the right, looking up the street between Jackson and Philip at the quiescent Lafayette Public School building, making sure there was really a holiday. No sign of life there relieved him immensely, for the Principal, Mr. Lewis Elkin, brooked no absentees without due cause, which usually meant near death.