Mr. Mix repressed a smile. “Yes, he said if we draft a bill, and get it introduced and passed, he’ll sign it.”
“Well, what more could he say?”
He wanted to ask, in turn, what less could be said, but he contained himself. “You know,” he warned her, “as soon as we put out any really violent propaganda, we’re going to lose some of our new members, and some of our prestige.”
“Good! Weed out the dead-wood.”
“That’s all right, but after what we’ve done with the food laws and stopping the sale of cigarettes to boys, and so on, people are looking at us as a switch to chastise the city. But we don’t want them to look at us as a cudgel. And this state law you’ve got in mind hits too many people.”
“Let it hit ’em.”
“Well, anyway,” he pleaded, “there’s no 164 sense in going out and waving the club so everybody’s scared off. We ought to take six months or a year, and do it gradually. And we ought to pass a model ordinance here first, before we talk about statutes. I’d suggest a series of public lectures, and a lot of educational pamphlets for a start. I’ll write them myself.”
She was impatient, but she finally yielded. “Well, we’ll see how it works. Go ahead and do it.”
“I will––I’ll have the whole thing done by late this spring.”
“Not ’till then?” she protested, vigorously.