A vast crowd was walking up the Avenue. In the van marched one of
H. R.'s free sandwiches. He was dressed in crimson broadcloth (from
Morton & Co. as per the next morning's accounts) and he wore a shining
silk hat (Fox Brothers, as per same in the _Times_, _Herald_, and
_Tribune_). The sandwich-board was a most gorgeous affair--a shield of
burnished gold (by Cellini & Co., Florentine frame-makers) on which were
the arms of the City of New York in heraldic colors. Beneath, in
six-inch letters of glittering turquoise enamel, was:

[Illustration: THE FIRST OF THE PERFECTLY BEAUTIFUL 100 IS GRACE
GOODCHILD OF 777 FIFTH AVENUE.]

In front of the Goodchild mansion the stalwart free sandwich stopped,
faced Miss Goodchild, raised his glittering top-hat, and held it in the
air, Beau Brummelesquely.

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 shi