“I have heard all about your meeting last night,” she went on ruthlessly, her eyes flashing. “How you suggested the name, how you settled the question to suit yourself, and how you called the men together this morning and told them that the child was to be called Doraine before you asked them to vote on it. Vote on it! What a travesty! And no one had the nerve to stand up and say a word for that poor little woman. Oh, you've got them well-tamed, Mr. Percival.”
By this time the two nurses had appeared in the doorway, and several other women at work down the line, scenting the fray, were approaching.
“I guess you'd better call off the vote, Mr. Percival,” said one of the nurses, eyeing him unflinchingly.
“I can't call it off. The men adopted the name unanimously. I have no right to set aside their decision, no matter how hastily it was made,” said he, beginning to bridle now that he tasted concerted opposition.
“I warn you that I intend to call the women,—and what few men there are with minds of their own,—together this evening to see that Betty Cruise gets fair play,” said Ruth. “When she hears that we are behind her, she'll have the backbone to tell you men to mind your own business and—”
“Have I a mind of my own or not, Miss Clinton?” he interrupted.
“You certainly have,” she declared with conviction.
“Then you may expect me to be one of the men to attend your meeting. Good morning.” He lifted his hat, smiled and walked briskly away.
“He'll crab the whole thing,” observed one of the women, and despite her vocal rancour there was an admiring expression in her eyes as they followed him down the road.
“If he wants to call that baby Andrew Jackson or George Washington, he'll have his way,” said another. “Sex won't make any difference to him.”