By the time I had worn the editor down to a point where she was willing to let me work just part time, at a salary surprisingly large for a small town newspaper to offer, my natural laziness woke up with a start to the fact that I was actually about to let myself in for regular hours of extra, unnecessary work, and I took advantage of woman's privilege. I changed my mind. "I don't want to tie myself down to definite hours after all, I guess," I said. "I'll work on sort of a free lance basis. I'll bring you several news stories every week." I promised to be back with a story on the first meeting of the motel owners' association in time to meet her deadline. The meeting was held at the Auto Haven, the big, rather old motel about half a mile from us, farther toward town, where Moejy spent what part of his time he wasn't devoting to harassing us or David. Grant and I, having engaged Mrs. Clark to take care of the children and rent the one cabin that was not yet occupied, were the first ones there. Mr. Bradley, our middle-aged host, motioned us to chairs. He was an ordinary-looking, likeable man; the only thing about him incomprehensible to me was his toleration--his apparent liking--for Moejy. Well, I philosophized, we all have our little eccentricities. And then the motel owners began to arrive. Mr. Buxley of the Westward; Mr. Vernon of the Bon Ton; Mr. Featherbrain of the Palace; Mr. Renault of the Mountain Lodge; Mr. Dale of the Cherry; Mr. Anderson, of the Desert Breeze. All misters. It began to look as though I would be the only woman present. This bothered me a little, particularly after Grant's broad hints that this was to be a businessmen's meeting, and his slightly more veiled ones that women don't know much and should try not to get into situations where their ignorance will be conspicuous. It would have pleased me very much if the majority of the people at the meeting had been women, very intelligent ones who thought of and discussed and settled every problem before the few men present could get their inferior minds to functioning. However, such was not to be; after the last of the twenty-eight arrivals had come there was only one other woman, and that one was my plump, shabby friend Mrs. Barkin, of the Sylvan Motel, who had, obviously, no husband to come in her stead. I couldn't help feeling rather superfluous. I sat there seething, as many feminist-minded women have done before me, at the age-old theory of masculine supremacy. Assuming that I must feel out of place, the kind Mr. Bradley--who took charge of the first meeting, pending election of regular officers--remarked at one time during the evening, "Of course, we'll be glad to have the wives of the motel owners attend the meetings too."