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I said, “McIntyre, do you know what they want? They want a big room in an air conditioned building. They want a room on the third floor where my office is, which is the central core of the whole Department of Labor, which means that the best and most desirable offices are there. They want a private telephone on each desk paid for by the government of the United States. Now I make them go into the hall where the public telephones are and drop their nickels in when they want to call their office, or their best girl, or whoever it is they want to call. If they happen to be in the building, they have to use the public telephones. But now they want a telephone on each desk. They want messenger service paid for by the government of the United States. They want government typewriters on their desks so they can type their stories right there and save themselves time and trouble. I don't think it's right or proper. I don't think they should be there.”

“Well, you better have them.”

I finally succumbed and gave them a press room, but not on the third floor. They always growled about that, “Look where she puts us, down here in these horrid quarters.” It was a perfectly good room in a brand new building. I wouldn't buy typewriters for them. I wouldn't spend the government money that way. They got a telephone on