Mr. Mix gave her a look which was a throwback to his cave-man ancestry. “To hell with the Council!”
For an instant, her whole being rebelled, and then she saw his eyes. “A-all right,” she faltered. “I––I’ll telephone!”
Inside of five minutes, she told him that of her loan, there was nothing left at all. The money had been wanted for the two-year rental of a new hall, at 300 Chestnut Street; the owner had made a marked concession in price for advance payment.
“Never mind, then,” he rasped. “That’s cold turkey. Give me a check for every nickel you’ve got.... And I’ll want the car all day. I want a cup of coffee. And you wait right here until I get word to you what to do next.”
“Couldn’t I even––”
“You stay here! Far’s I know, I’ll have you making the rounds of the hock-shops to cash in your jewelry. But––” He relaxed slightly. “But when it’s for reform, my dear––when it’s for civilization––the League––isn’t it worth any sacrifice?”
A spark of the old fire burned in her eyes. “Humph! Good thing one of us has got something to sacrifice, if anybody asked me. But here’s your coffee.... Don’t make such a horrid noise with it, Theodore.”
At noon, he telephoned her two pieces of news. The Council, fairly swamped with hundreds of outraged voters, had promptly modified the existing ordinance, and rejected––unanimously––the Mix amendment. And Mr. 286 Mix, who had spent three hours in conference, and in battle, had emerged victorious.