That was their only misfortune, and all it cost them was a matter of minutes, so by noon of the thirtieth, an hour or two after MacBride and young Page arrived from Minneapolis, it became clear that they would be through in time.

At eight o’clock next morning, as Bannon and MacBride were standing in the superintendent’s office, he came in and held out his hand.  “She’s full, Mr. Bannon.  I congratulate you.”

“Full, eh?” said MacBride.  Then he dropped his hand on Bannon’s shoulder.  “Well,” he said, “do you want to go to sleep, or will you come and talk business with me for a little while?”

“Sleep!” Bannon echoed.  “I’ve been oversleeping lately.”

CHAPTER XVII

The elevator was the place for the dinner, if only the mild weather that had followed the Christmas storm should continue—­on that Bannon, Pete, and Max were agreed.  New Year’s Day would be a holiday, and there was room on the distributing floor for every man who had worked an hour on the job since the first spile had been driven home in the Calumet clay.  To be sure most of the laborers had been laid off before the installing of the machinery, but Bannon knew that they would all be on hand, and he meant to have seats for them.  But on the night of the thirtieth the wind swung around to the northeast, and it came whistling through the cracks in the cupola walls with a sting in it that set the weighers to shivering.  And as the insurance companies would have inquired curiously into any arrangement for heating that gloomy space on the tops of the bins, the plan had to be given up.

As soon as the last of the grain was in, on the thirty-first, Max took a north-bound car and scoured South Chicago for a hall that was big enough.  Before the afternoon was gone he had found it, and had arranged with a restaurant keeper to supply the dinner.  Early the next morning the three set to work, making long tables and benches by resting planks on boxes, and covering the tables with pink and blue and white scalloped shelf-paper.

It was nearly ten o’clock when Max, after draping a twenty-four-foot flag in a dozen different ways, let it slide down the ladder to the floor and sat down on the upper round, looking out over the gridiron of tables with a disgusted expression.  Peterson, aided by a man from the restaurant, was bringing in load after load of thick white plates, stacking them waist high near the door.  Max was on the point of calling to him, but he recollected that Pete’s eye, though quick with timbers, would not help much in questions of art.  Just then Bannon came through the doorway with another flag rolled under his arm.

“They’re here already, a couple of dozen of ’em,” he said, as he dropped the flag at the foot of the ladder.  “I’ve left James on the stairs to keep ’em out until we’re ready.  Better have an eye on the fire escape, too—­ they’re feeling pretty lively.”