Laura was puzzled. "Doesn’t Chief Bentley know he can’t hold us?"

"Oh," Lucie said, chortling, "he knows all right, but he’s determined to harass us and push us as far as he can. I think our eternal vigils at the White House have infuriated him, and he means to show us that we can’t upset his city. After what we’ve been through, does he think we’ll stop now?"

''I admire you for your time in prison," Laura said hesitantly. "I know it was awful because I’ve been reading Ada Kendall’s journal."

"It wasn’t pleasant, but we gave each other strength. See this?" Lucy pointed to a silver pin, a tiny replica of cell doors, on her collar. "When we were set free, a mass rally was held at the Belasco Theater, and we were each presented with a pin like this." She tapped it proudly with her forefinger. "Just over eighty-six thousand dollars was raised in our behalf, and they dubbed us prisoners of freedom." She chuckled. "We had other names, too. The other inmates called us the Strange Ladies."

Laura marveled that this raw-boned leader had spent so much time talking with her. What she said made sense. Indeed, she wouldn’t give up. Maybe, just maybe, she could do something with her life that would help women like Lucy Burns and Alice Paul. If she could serve such great women her life might be worth something. She smiled. There would be years to figure out her life. Who knows, she thought bitterly, maybe she’d still be on the picket line in years to come. Surely not. But she’d never leave here until the nineteenth amendment had been passed, that was certain! Never. She grasped the vacuum bottle and with firm steps hurried out to the pickets.

The week was almost over, and even if the pickets were arrested, the courts would order an immediate release. Everything was fine. She wanted to change her determined stride to a skip and a jump as she neared the brave women who patiently held their placards.

Dusk, mingling with the fog that had rolled in from the Tidal Basin, gave the scene before her an ethereal appearance. The women in white, with their large-brimmed hats, standing very still and straight, and the purple, gold, and white tricolor billowing out from the White House fence, was a breathtaking sight.

As Laura poured a cup of coffee for Rowena Green, one of the youngest and prettiest suffragists, there was a loud clatter of horse hooves. Suddenly, from behind the shrubbery, policemen jumped forward, dashing to arrest the pickets. One on horseback shouted, "Women, surrender. You’re surrounded."

The scattering women, however, paid no heed and rushed in every direction to escape the policemen. A patrol wagon chugged into the square, and Laura ducked out from under the grasp of a burly officer. Her heart in her dry mouth, she raced toward the statue of Andrew Jackson but realized almost at once that the bronze horseman would be scant protection.

Frantically she veered to the left and dived into the bushes. The fog might enshroud her in a misty gray cover. She heard heavy footsteps and scrambled deeper into the brush. Bunching up, she clasped her knees tight against her chest. Not daring to breathe, she waited fearfully as the thrashing came closer. Laura squeezed her eyes shut and murmured in a low voice, "Please don’t let them find me." She mustn’t be arrested. But even as this thought flickered through her mind, a harsh, panting voice said, "Over here, Clancy. Here’s the little weasel!"

Through the branches she could see the blue uniform and tried to make herself smaller, but it was no use.

"Come out of there," a voice snarled. "Burrowing in like a rat in a hole!"

She tried to scurry away from his reaching hands, but his nightstick came crashing down on her shoulder, sending an agonizing flame of pain down her arm. Then all at once she was lifted out of the shrubs. She yelped. Her arms, she thought, were being pulled from their sockets as the policeman jerked her to her feet. Dragging her toward the patrol wagon, she tried to hang back, but his fingers were like iron talons.

She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. She must be brave and show the mettle of which suffragists were made. Her shoulder was a ball of fire, but she mustn’t think about it. Suddenly she bent her head, sinking her teeth into the policeman’s hairy wrist and squirmed free, but she didn’t get far. Without a moment’s hesitation the officer lunged after her, entangling his fingers in her long, thick hair.

"You vixen!" he roared, pulling her back.

Surely the man was pulling her hair from the scalp. Wincing, all she could do was follow meekly along with her head twisted to one side.

When they reached the rear of the wagon, he lifted her up. "Get in there," he growled. "You witch!"

As she was roughly shoved into the patrol wagon, all she could see was a row of women staring down at her as she lay sprawled before them. Suddenly the faces blurred and became hideous, disapproving masks that resembled Shawn, Mr. Cole, Mr. Blair, Sarah, and her mother.

Chapter Fifteen

Compelled to relinquish her skirt and blouse at the district jail’s front desk, Laura was given a straight-cut cotton dress. Donning the coarse gown that reached to her ankles, she already felt like a criminal.

As Laura was thrown into the dim cell she was frightened, aching, and angry. The room was barely lit by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling, but it was enough to illuminate a cot crisscrossed by wooden slats, with the bedding roll at the foot.

Fetid air assailed her nostrils, and the cramped space caused her to cringe. She had a horror of small enclosures ever since the time, as a child, she had played hide-and-seek in the backyard with Sarah. She had run around the house, ducked through the front door, and hidden in the hall closet. When Sarah didn’t come inside to search for her, she had decided to come out and show herself, but when she had tried the door, the knob only slipped around and around in her hand. She couldn’t get out, and her muffled cries couldn’t be heard. She had beat on the door until her fists ached. It wasn’t until Sarah came in, over an hour later, and could hear her wails that she was liberated. Her sobs and ragged breathing alarmed Sarah, but after a few minutes, she had recovered. However, she’d never forgotten her fright, and since that time she had refused to venture into any tiny space.

She gazed around and shivered. Now she was in a little room with a cold concrete floor, damp heavy air, and iron bars that would keep her locked in for God knew how long.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom she could see how dirty the washbasin and corner toilet were. She glanced across the corridor, and in the opposite cell saw Rowena Green, sitting dejectedly on the bed, and her roommate, Mrs. Lawrence Lewis, grasping the bars and staring gloomily at her.

Mrs. Lewis was one of the dauntless suffragists who had been arrested in 1917 and who had kept a diary of what had happened to her. Because of her vivid descriptions of what had been done to the women prisoners, they had gained the public’s sympathy. The outcry that followed forced the government to release the suffragists sooner than they had wanted to.

Rowena, white-faced, stretched out on the bed, her arm flung across her eyes.

Mrs. Lewis, square-jawed but with large, gentle eyes, said soothingly, "Don’t worry, Laura. We should be out of here in a few days."

"A few days?" Laura echoed dumbly. "I thought the authorities couldn’t hold us."

Mrs. Lewis smiled. "Oh, they can detain us as long as they please. Remember, this is Friday night, and over a weekend it will be difficult to expedite a court order for our release."

The words caused Laura’s heart to lurch. How could she stand being cooped up in this suffocating cell? What if she missed class on Monday? Then she would not only have a prison record, but she’d be expelled from school as well. Tears stung her eyes. What could she do?

"How can we notify Miss Paul?" she asked fearfully, looking wide-eyed at Mrs. Lewis. "Or our families?"

Mrs. Lewis chuckled, showing even, white teeth. "Miss Paul already knows. And your family? She’ll take care of that, too. If you need —"

"Shut up in there!" a prison matron shouted, all at once materializing in the corridor. "No talking! Absolutely none!" Banging her nightstick smartly across the bars for emphasis, she paced back and forth in front of them. A large, beefy woman with a scowl on her long face, she wore a dark uniform. "If there’s any more noise out of either cell," she boomed, "I’ll toss you into solitary!" Enjoying her authority, she thrust her big face between the bars. Her narrow eyes glinted maliciously at Laura.

Laura shrank back, her legs bumping against the cot. Solitary! She must never be thrown into solitary. She would go crazy in a dark hole!

Turning her back on the matron, she silently unrolled the thin mattress. Trembling, she lay down and pulled the worn blanket up to her chin. When she dared to peek out, the threatening guard had left.

She stared into the darkness, hearing the drip, drip from the faucet and a scurrying, scratching noise. What was it? Her blood ran cold. Rats! It had to be rats! She turned on her side and curled up in a ball, shuddering. Her shoulder sent sharp shooting pains down her arm. She tried her best not to cry again. How could the suffragists stand a seven-month jail sentence? She closed her eyes against the scratching noises and tried to sleep, praying for freedom. She must have more confidence in Miss Paul. She would have them out in the morning.