God’?”
His teeth flashed white in a tea-brown face as he smiled widely. “’Fraid I don’t know that one. But how ‘bout this?” With one fluid motion Ivory seated himself on a clawfooted stool, revolved it to face the keys, and struck up the opening chords of “Little Brown Jug,” a song recently composed by the “wets” to rile the “drys.” Agatha drew herself up and swung away.
When the ladies began arriving the two were still there, Ivory’s songs filling the street with his musical invitation, Gandy with his nonchalance and grin intact, excreting Southern charm like so much musk from a muskrat. He greeted each lady who came along.
“Evenin’, ma’am,” he said time after time, touching his hat brim. “Y’all enjoy your meetin’, now.” His grin was especially dashing for Violet and the delegation from Mrs. Gill’s boardinghouse. “Evenin’, Miz Parsons. Nice t’ see y’all again, and your friends, too. Evenin’, ladies.”
Violet tittered, blushed, and led the way next door. She was followed by Evelyn Sowers, Susan White, Bessie Hottle, and Florence Loretto, all of whom had a personal stake in the goings-on at the Gilded Cage Saloon. There were others, too. Annie Macintosh, sporting a bruise on her left cheek. Minnie Butler, whose husband had a yen for the gaming tables. Jennie Yoast, whose husband made the rounds of all the saloons every Saturday night and sometimes was found sleeping on the boardwalk on Sunday mornings. Anna Brewster, Addie Anderson, Carolyn Hawes, and manyothers whose men were known to have exceedingly limber elbows.
Attending the meeting were thirty-six women, most of them eager to stamp out the evils of the ardent spirits; a few were merely curious about what “those fanatics” did when they got together.
Drusilla Wilson personally greeted each arrival at the door with her hostess at her side. The meeting began with a prayer, followed by Miss Wilson’s opening statement.
“There are four thousand rum holes spreading death and disease through all ranks of American society, vile dens that respectable people abhor from a distance. Your own fair city has become blemished by eleven such chancres. Many of your husbands are wooed away from home night after night, robbing your families of their protectors and providers. The human wreckage caused by alcohol can come only to tragic ends—in hospitals, where victims die of delirium tremens, or in reformatories such as Ward Island, or even asylums such as that on Blackwell Island. I’ve visited these institutions myself. I’ve seen the creeping death that preys upon those who’ve begun with a single innocent drink, then another and another, until the victim is abysmally lost. And who is left to suffer the effects of intemperance? The women and children—that’s who! From half a million American women a wail of anguish is sounded over an otherwise happy land. Over the graves of forty thousand drunkards goes up the mourning cry of widow and orphan. The chief evils of spirits have fallen on women. It is eminently fitting that women should inaugurate the work for its destruction!”
As Wilson spoke, the faces in the audience grew rapt. She was earnest, spellbinding. Even those who’d come only out of curiosity were becoming mesmerized.
“And the saloons themselves are breeding places for the vermin of this earth—gamblers, confidence men, and nymphs du prairie. Let us not forget that Wichita, at its most decadent, sported houses of ill repute with no less than three hundred painted cats! Three hundred in a single city! But we cleaned up Wichita, and we’ll clean up Proffitt! Together!”
When her speech ended, the crowd voiced a single question: How?
The answer was concise: by educating, and advocating prayer and willpower. “The W.C.T.U. is not militant. What we achieve, we shall achieve by peaceful means. Yet, let us not shirk our duty when it comes to making that destroyer of men’s souls—the
His teeth flashed white in a tea-brown face as he smiled widely. “’Fraid I don’t know that one. But how ‘bout this?” With one fluid motion Ivory seated himself on a clawfooted stool, revolved it to face the keys, and struck up the opening chords of “Little Brown Jug,” a song recently composed by the “wets” to rile the “drys.” Agatha drew herself up and swung away.
When the ladies began arriving the two were still there, Ivory’s songs filling the street with his musical invitation, Gandy with his nonchalance and grin intact, excreting Southern charm like so much musk from a muskrat. He greeted each lady who came along.
“Evenin’, ma’am,” he said time after time, touching his hat brim. “Y’all enjoy your meetin’, now.” His grin was especially dashing for Violet and the delegation from Mrs. Gill’s boardinghouse. “Evenin’, Miz Parsons. Nice t’ see y’all again, and your friends, too. Evenin’, ladies.”
Violet tittered, blushed, and led the way next door. She was followed by Evelyn Sowers, Susan White, Bessie Hottle, and Florence Loretto, all of whom had a personal stake in the goings-on at the Gilded Cage Saloon. There were others, too. Annie Macintosh, sporting a bruise on her left cheek. Minnie Butler, whose husband had a yen for the gaming tables. Jennie Yoast, whose husband made the rounds of all the saloons every Saturday night and sometimes was found sleeping on the boardwalk on Sunday mornings. Anna Brewster, Addie Anderson, Carolyn Hawes, and manyothers whose men were known to have exceedingly limber elbows.
Attending the meeting were thirty-six women, most of them eager to stamp out the evils of the ardent spirits; a few were merely curious about what “those fanatics” did when they got together.
Drusilla Wilson personally greeted each arrival at the door with her hostess at her side. The meeting began with a prayer, followed by Miss Wilson’s opening statement.
“There are four thousand rum holes spreading death and disease through all ranks of American society, vile dens that respectable people abhor from a distance. Your own fair city has become blemished by eleven such chancres. Many of your husbands are wooed away from home night after night, robbing your families of their protectors and providers. The human wreckage caused by alcohol can come only to tragic ends—in hospitals, where victims die of delirium tremens, or in reformatories such as Ward Island, or even asylums such as that on Blackwell Island. I’ve visited these institutions myself. I’ve seen the creeping death that preys upon those who’ve begun with a single innocent drink, then another and another, until the victim is abysmally lost. And who is left to suffer the effects of intemperance? The women and children—that’s who! From half a million American women a wail of anguish is sounded over an otherwise happy land. Over the graves of forty thousand drunkards goes up the mourning cry of widow and orphan. The chief evils of spirits have fallen on women. It is eminently fitting that women should inaugurate the work for its destruction!”
As Wilson spoke, the faces in the audience grew rapt. She was earnest, spellbinding. Even those who’d come only out of curiosity were becoming mesmerized.
“And the saloons themselves are breeding places for the vermin of this earth—gamblers, confidence men, and nymphs du prairie. Let us not forget that Wichita, at its most decadent, sported houses of ill repute with no less than three hundred painted cats! Three hundred in a single city! But we cleaned up Wichita, and we’ll clean up Proffitt! Together!”
When her speech ended, the crowd voiced a single question: How?
The answer was concise: by educating, and advocating prayer and willpower. “The W.C.T.U. is not militant. What we achieve, we shall achieve by peaceful means. Yet, let us not shirk our duty when it comes to making that destroyer of men’s souls—the
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