Mrs. Elizabeth Tweed, wife of Private William Tweed, was giving
trouble to the Patriotic Society. It was bad enough for her to go out
evenings with an officer, and dance in the afternoon at the hotel
_dansant_ in a perfect outburst of gay garments; but there was no
excuse for her coming home in a taxi-cab, after a shopping expedition
in broad daylight, and to the scandal of the whole street, who watched
her from behind lace curtains.

The evil effects of Mrs. Tweed's actions began to show in the
falling-off of subscriptions to the Patriotic Fund, and the collectors
heard many complaints about her gay habits of life and her many and
varied ways of squandering money. Mrs. Tweed became a perfect wall of
defense for those who were not too keen on parting with their money.
They made a moral issue of it, and virtuously declared, "That woman is
not going to the devil on my money." "I scrimp and save and deny
myself everything so I can give to the Patriotic Fund, and look at
her!" women cried.

It was in vain that the collectors urged that she was only getting
five dollars a month, anyway, from the Patriotic Fund, and that would
not carry her far on the road to destruction or in any other
direction. When something which appears to set aside the obligation to
perform a disagreeable duty comes in view, the hands of the soul
naturally clamp on it.

Mrs. Tweed knew that she was the bad example, and gloried in it. She
banged the front door when she entered the block late at night, and
came up the stairs gayly singing, "Where did Robinson Crusoe go with
Friday on Saturday night?" while her sleepy neighbors anathematized
all dependents of the Patriotic Fund.