He listened, fidgeting impatiently, to perhaps two-thirds of the editorial, and then he interrupted.
“Hold on! Heave to!” he ordered. “For the land sakes, Zuba, what's set you goin' like this? Are YOU goin' to—to—”
“To what? Am I goin' to what?”
“Are you goin' to 'advance' or whatever you call it? What ails all you women, anyway?”
“What ails us? Hain't I been readin' you what ails us?”
“You've been readin' a whole lot, but I've heard it all before. You want to be 'free'! Confound it, you ARE free, ain't you? You want to take your place in the world! Why, you've had the front place ever since Eve got Adam to eat the apple. She was skipper of that craft, wasn't she! And us men—most of us, anyhow—have been fo'mast hands ever since. What is it you want? Want to vote? Go ahead and vote. I'M willin'.”
But Azuba laughed scornfully.
“Vote!” she repeated. “I don't care whether I vote or not.”
“Then what do you want?”
“We want—” Azuba hesitated, “we want—what this paper says we want. And,” with determination, “we're goin' to have it.”