He was about to speak now, his eyes roaming the room waiting for the last man to be still.  No fumbling of glasses or rearranging of napkin, but erect, with a certain fearless air that was as much a part of his nature as was his genius.  Beginning in a clear, distinct voice which reached every ear in the room, he told them first how welcome they were.  How great an honor it was for him to have them so close to him—­so close that he could look into all their faces with one glance; not only those who came from a distance but those of his personal staff, to whom really the success of the year’s work had been due.  As for himself, he was, as they knew, only the lead horse in the team, going ahead to show them the way, while they did the effective pulling that brought the load to market!  Here he slipped his hand in his pocket, took from it a small box which he laid beside his plate, and continued: 

“At these festivals, as you know, and if my memory serves me this is our third, it has always been our custom to give some slight token of our appreciation to the man who has done most during the year to further the work of the office.  This has always been a difficult thing to decide, because every one of you, without a single exception, has given the best that is in you in the general result.  Three years ago, you remember, it was awarded to the man who by common consent had carried to completion, and without a single error, the detailed drawings of the Museum which was finished last year.  I am looking at you, Mr. Downey, and again congratulate you.  Last year it was awarded to Mr. Buttrick for the masterly way with which he put together the big arches of the Government warehouses—­a man whom it would have been my pleasure to congratulate again to-night had it been possible for him to reach us.  To-night I think you will all agree with me that this small token, not only of my own, but of your ’personal regard and appreciation’” (here he opened the box and took from it a man’s ring set with three jewels), “should be given to the man who has carried out in so thorough a way the part allotted to him in the Corn Exchange, and who is none other than Mr. Garrison Minott, who for—­”

The rest of the sentence was lost in the uproar.

“Garry!  Garry!  Garry Minott!” came from all parts of the room.  “Bully for Garry!  You deserve it, old man!  Three cheers for Garry Minott!  Hip ...  Hip ...!”

Morris’s voice now dominated the room.

“Come this way, Mr. Minott.”

The face of the young superintendent, which had been in a broad laugh all the evening, grew white and red by turns.  Out of pure astonishment he could neither move nor speak.

“All right—­stay where you are!” cried Morris laughing.  “Pass it up to him, please.”

John Breen sprang from his chair with the alertness of a man who had been accustomed to follow his impulse.  In his joy over his friend’s good fortune he forgot his embarrassment, forgot that he was a stranger; forgot that he alone, perhaps, was the only young man in the room whose life and training had not fitted him for the fullest enjoyment of what was passing around him; forgot everything, in fact, but that his comrade, his friend, his chum, had won the highest honors his Chief could bestow.