All about and from the offices that ran beside the ball-room sounded the click of typewriters—some one counted twenty-four typewriters in the house once. Everywhere, you ran into busy, business-like stenographers with papers in their hands, proceeding from one office to another. If it were lunch time, or dinner time, pairs of young girls, with their arms around each other’s waists, chattering busily, were making their way to the tea-room. At night, the big ball-room was filled with groups reading magazines at the big (and priceless) tables; or talking over the events of the day ... Congress ... the picketing. Late at night, the discussions still went on. Upstairs, they followed each other from bedroom to bedroom, still arguing, still comparing notes, still making suggestions in regard to a hundred things: organizing, lobbying, personal appeal to political leaders, et caetera, ad infinitum. The huge, four-poster bed—big enough for royalty—in Mrs. Lawrence Lewis’s room was the scene—with ardent pickets sitting all over it—of many a discussion that threatened to prolong itself until dawn. And all day long, and all evening long—any time—organizers with their harvests of facts and ideas were likely to appear from the remotest parts of the country. Young, enthusiastic, unconscious of bodily discomfort, if the beds were all full, they pulled a mattress onto the floor and slept there or curled up on a couch—anything so long as they could stay at the friendly, welcoming Headquarters. To middle age, it was all a revelation of the unsounded, unplumbed depths of endurance in convinced, emancipate, determined youth. There was no end to their strength apparently. Apparently there was no possibility of palling their spirit. Arriving at nine at night from Oregon, they would depart blithely the next morning at six for Alabama. To those women who had the privilege of taking part, either as active participants, or enthralled lookers-on, this will always stand out as one of their most thrilling life experiences. Katherine Rolston Fisher’s fine descriptive phrase in regard to it all inevitably recurs: “It was,” she says, “the renaissance of the Suffrage movement.” Speed was their animating force: “The Suffrage Amendment passed at once,” their eternal motto. In the nomenclature of the Great War, the pickets were the shock troops of the Suffrage forces. They took the first line trenches. The forces of the organization back of them secured and maintained these positions; held those trenches until the time came for the next advance. As for the organizers working all over the country, they were the air force and—still using the nomenclature of that great struggle—they were like the little, swift, quickly-turning chase-planes which so effectually harassed the huge enemy machines.