“There ain’t gonna be no meeting. That’s all I can say.”
I had not the faintest idea of what was happening. A newspaper man standing near by suggested, “Why not call up Police Commissioner Enright and see what the trouble is?”
Juliet and I rushed across the street to a booth and she telephoned police headquarters. No one could say where the Commissioner was. As far as they knew no orders to forbid the meeting had been issued.
Then I put through a call for Mayor Hylan. While I was waiting for the connection I kept my eyes on the Town Hall entrance and saw that policemen were cautiously opening the doors to let out driblets of people. If they could get out I could get in, so I abandoned the telephone and wove my way through the throng until I reached the doors, slipping in under the policemen’s arms before they could stop me. Dignified health officers from all over the country, lawyers and judges with their families and guests were standing about, grumbling, vague, reluctant to depart, wondering what to do.
I fairly flew up the aisle but halted in front of the footlights; they were as high as my head and another blue uniform was obstructing the steps leading to the stage. Suddenly Lothrop Stoddard, the author, tall and strong, seized me and literally tossed me up to the platform. A messenger boy was aimlessly grasping flowers which were to be presented after my speech. Stoddard grabbed them briskly, handed them to me, and shouted, “Here’s Mrs. Sanger!”
“Don’t leave!” I called to the audience. “We’re going to hold the meeting.”
A great scramble began to get back into the seats. The hall was in a turmoil; the front doors had been stampeded and those in the street were pressing in, only to find their places gone. The boxes and galleries were soon filled, the stage was jammed, hundreds were crowded in the rear. I cried, “Get in out of the aisles!” I knew the meeting could be legally closed if they were blocked, and I did not want fire regulations to be used as a pretext.
I still had no idea of what had gone on earlier when I commenced my lecture, but had uttered no more than ten or twelve words when two policemen loomed up beside me and said, “You can’t talk here.” A thundering applause broke out as though it were the only relief for angry, indignant, rebellious spirits.
“Why can’t I?”
I started again but my voice could not be heard. I then suggested to Harold Cox, “Perhaps they’ll let you speak. Try it.” This white-haired and pink-cheeked gentleman walked to the edge of the platform with a dignity of bearing about as distantly removed from immorality as could be imagined. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I have come from across the Atlantic—” but that was as far as he got before he was led back to his seat by a policeman.