He had a long walk by Twelfth street to the rooms of the committee on transportation.  Arrived at the hall, he found two long lines of waiting humanity reaching out like great wings from the door, the men on one side, the women on the other.  He fell into line at the very foot, and there he waited hour after hour.  For once, the women held the vantage-ground.  They passed up in advance of the men to the audience-room, being admitted one by one.  The audience consumed, on the average, five minutes to a person.  At length all the women had had their turn:  then, one by one, the men were admitted.  Slowly Dr. Lively moved forward.  He had attained the steps and was feeling hopeful of a speedy admission, when the business-session was pronounced ended for the day, and the doors were closed.  He went back drooping, and related his experience to his wife.

“You don’t mean to say you’ve been gone all this afternoon and come back without the passes?” she exclaimed.

“That’s just how it is,” answered the doctor.

“Well, I’ll warrant I would have got in if I’d been there,” she said.

“Yes, you’d have got an audience, for, as I have said, the women were admitted before the men.  My next neighbor in the line said he had been there three days in succession without getting into the hall.”

“Well, I’ll go in the morning, and I’ll come home with a pass in an hour, I promise you.”

The next morning Mrs. Lively started for the hall at eight o’clock, determined to procure a place at the head of the line.  But, early as was the hour, she found the doors already besieged.  There were at least three dozen women ahead of her.  She took her place very ungraciously at the foot of the line.  At nine the doors were opened, and the first comers admitted.  Ten o’clock came, and Mrs. Lively was still in the street—­had not even reached the stairs.  Eleven o’clock came—­she stood on the second step.  At length she had reached the top step but one, and it was not yet twelve.

“It doesn’t seem fair,” she said to the doorkeeper, “that the men should have to wait, day after day, till all the women in the city are served.”

“No,” assented the keeper, “it is not fair.  Now, there are men in that line who have been here for four days.  They’d have done better and saved time if they’d gone to work in the burnt district moving rubbish, and earned their railroad passage.”

Mrs. Lively’s suggestion of unfairness proved an unfortunate one for her, for the keeper conceived the idea of acting on it.

“It isn’t fair,” he repeated, “and I mean to let some of those fellows in.”

“Oh, do let me in first,” she cried, but the keeper had already beckoned to the head of the other line, and was now marching him into the hall.

“No use for you to try for a pass,” said the inner doorkeeper after a few words with the petitioner.  “You must have a certificate from some well-known, responsible person that your means were all lost by the fire, or you cannot get an audience.  Must have your certificate, sir, before I can pass you to the committee.”