A week later the formidable expedition of representative ladies arrived;
and now they were sitting on the shore of Lake Susan W. Pillsbury, at a
little distance from us, trying to keep the midges from their features
and attempting to eat the fare provided for them by me.
I myself couldn't eat it. No wonder they murmured. But hunger goaded them
to attack the greasy mess of trout and fried cornmeal.
Kitten was saying to me:
"Our medicine chest isn't very extensive. I hope they brought their own.
If they didn't, some among us will never again see New York."
I stole a furtive glance at the unfortunate women. There was one among
them--but let me first enumerate their heavy artillery:
There was the Reverend Dr. Amelia Jones, blond, adipose, and close to the
four-score mark. She stepped high in the Equal Franchise ranks. Nobody
had ever had the temerity to answer her back.
There was Miss Sadie Dingleheimer, fifty, emaciated, anemic, and gauntly
glittering with thick-lensed eye-glasses. She was the President of the
National Prophylactic Club, whatever that may be.
There was Miss Margaret McFadden, a Titian, profusely toothed, muscular,
and President of the Hair Dressers' Union of the United States.
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