Of course, any one who waits for others to move, can never be counted on for any heroic work. Clara had to go to Mrs. Burnham herself. Mrs. Burnham believed in the move, and said she would consult her husband. She did so, and he told her to not “make a fool of herself,” which was the best thing he could have done, for it roused a spirit of defiance, and no sooner was he out of the house than she ordered her carriage, drove over to Clara’s, and announced herself ready. On the way they called for Mrs. Kendrick, who joined them, and Mrs. Forest also at the last. In some of the places they visited, they saw sickening scenes; but Clara’s noble presence, her commanding eyes, her frank, womanly speech, gave the rest courage. She asked in every instance for a private interview with the heads of such establishments, and this interview was often had, for want of a better place, in back rooms piled with casks of liquor, demijohns, and bottles. Clara leading, the three elegant ladies followed, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but rather to the floor covered with sawdust, to absorb the tobacco-juice, ends of cigars, and dirt. The air was sickening in the extreme. Clara laid the case before the proprietors, appealed to their humanity, even when she had little faith in the existence of the sentiment, and pictured to them the suffering of mothers and wives and sisters, at the sight of their loved ones ruined for all good in this world. Some of the men affected contempt for any one who didn’t know “when he had got enough.” Mrs. Burnham occasionally put in a word of indignant protest that the town should allow poisonous liquors to be sold to young men, and boys in their teens. At one place a burly-necked, brutal man told Clara she had better go somewhere else to preach temperance, and suggested, with a leer, that a good place for her talents was among the “shriekers” at the approaching convention. When they left this place, their cheeks burning, Clara said, “Which of you ladies will tell me you have all the rights you want? These men, my friends, are your masters. These make the laws that control your property and your happiness. These men would teach _us_ our sphere, and make us forever dependent upon them, and the laws they make without our consent.” “Oh, don’t!” exclaimed Mrs. Burnham. “I am so angry already that I could burn up every rum-cask in town, and, I had almost said, these brutes with it.” “But don’t forget this, Mrs. Burnham: we are on a mission of strategy. We are not the political equals of these men, and every sign of anger you show, betrays your impotence to help yourself, and weakens our chance of success. Here we are at the next saloon. Now do be calm, Mrs. Burnham.”