THE FIRST DISTRICT.
The trouble with us in the First Congressional District was that we
could not carry the Ninth Ward. But for this weak point we would have
felt assured at any time. With the Ninth Ward eliminated we could
control the district barely. With the Ninth Ward for us it would be a
walk-over. But the ward belonged to Gunderson.
Gunderson employed three thousand men. He was not a party man, but he
was a partisan; that is, he would get interested sometimes in a
campaign, and when he did, each workman in his big manufactory must
vote as indicated or go. And Gunderson did not like Harlson. The ways
of the big employer were not what Harlson admired, and he had never
tried much to conciliate him. So it came that in more than one
legislative and local contest we had lost the Ninth Ward. And now
Harlson was a candidate for Congress.
We were puzzled. "I'm afraid Jean will have to lock me out again,"
laughed Harlson, as we were discussing the problem one night after a
committee meeting, and herein he referred to a funny episode, dating
back to the time when the Ape was but a yearling. Jean, dignified,
chatelaine, sweet wife and fond mother, was as interested in politics
as in anything else that commanded her husband's attention at any time,
and had learned from our conversations all about the Ninth Ward. We
were confident one spring, and as Grant left home on the morning of
election day he was informed that unless he came as a victor he must
not expect admission to the home containing his wife and baby boy. He
said he would return in triumph or upon his shield, but he did neither.
At five o'clock in the afternoon we knew that we were whipped, whipped
beautifully and thoroughly, and all because of that same black demon of
a Ninth Ward, and the fact was so apparent that we became suddenly
philosophical, and Grant turned to me and said:
"Come to dinner with me, Alf, and let's go now. What's the use of
staying to the funeral? We'll eat a good dinner and smoke, and good
digestion will wait on appetite, and we'll plan and say we'll do better
next time."
So we left the hurly-burly and took the train, and were at Harlson's
home a little before the dinner hour. Grant tried his latch-key, but
it would not serve. He rang the bell, but there came no answer. Then
there came a tapping and clatter from inside a window, and both of us
left the porch to get down upon the sward and visit the window and
investigate.
Inside the window, and smiling, was a small, brown woman, holding in
her arms a crowing youngster, who was making a great ado and reaching
out his hands toward his father. She raised the window just a little,
and put a question, gravely:
"What is it that you wish, gentlemen?"
Grant intimated, humbly, that we wanted to get in and be given some
dinner.
"Are you the gentlemen who were going to carry the Ninth Ward?"
"Yes."
"Did you carry it?"
"No."
The laughing face fell a little, but the stately air was recovered in a
moment. "Well," she said, with dignity, "I'm very sorry. We do not
wish to seem inhospitable, neither the baby nor I, but really we do not
feel justified in harboring people incapable of carrying the Ninth
Ward."
We explained and pleaded and apologized and promised, but for a long
time to no avail. At last, after the dinner-bell had sounded, and
after we had pledged ourselves to carry that ward yet or perish, we
were admitted, only then, though, as was explained, for the child's
sake. He was accustomed to climb upon his father after dinner.
So carrying the Ninth Ward became a synonym for any difficult feat with
us, and if Grant accomplished this or that, or I made a good turn, or
Jean gave her cook or dressmaker an inspiration, the Ninth Ward was
referred to as having been carried. And here was that ward before us
again in a greater emergency, and in its own proper person.
Gunderson had a wife. He would have owned two wives had the one in his
possession been surveyed and subdivided properly, for she was big
enough, abundantly, for two. She was the best illustration I ever saw
of what difficulties burden the ignorant rich who have social
ambitions. She was good-hearted, coarse, shy and hopeful. A woman may
be coarse and yet timid, as I have noted many a time, and Mrs.
Gunderson was of this type. She hungered for social status, but knew
not how to attain it. To her burly husband's credit, he wished, above
all things, to gratify his wife's ambition, but he was as ignorant as
she regarding ways and means. He had learned that there was a limit
even to the power of money.
Jean had met Mrs. Gunderson in a social way, but of course there could
be no affinity between the two, and the heavy-weight matron, anxious
for recognition, had hardly attracted a second thought from the small
aristocrat. I do not know, by the way, that I have told of the social
status of these friends of mine. I don't think either Grant or Jean
ever gave the matter much attention. Grant was democratic in every
principle, and yet, unknowingly, it seems to me, exclusive arbitrarily.
He had those about him whom he liked, and they were necessarily
somewhat of his kind. And Jean was, a little more thoughtfully,
perhaps, of the same sort. Unconsciously they were the center of a set
for admission to which rich men would have given money. But, as I
said, this key is one of the few things money cannot buy.
The political fight was on, and fierce. We did good work in that
campaign. The struggle was so keen, the supervision of everything so
searching, that daring fraud became a thing impossible. It was simply
a test of persuasion, of popularity and of relative skill in those
devices which are but the moves upon the chessboard in a game where
chances are nearly even. We were but moderately hopeful. Harlson was
immeasurably the better candidate. He was, at least, earnest and
honest, and would represent the district well. I asked once why he
wanted to go to Congress.
"I'll have to think," he said, "to answer you in full. Firstly, I
believe I want to go because I have some fool ideas about certain
legislation which I think I can accomplish. I believe they'll like me
better in this district, and, perhaps, in a broader way, after I have
been there. Then I want Jean to enjoy with me all the mummery and
absurdity of the most mixed social conditions on the face of the
civilized globe, and, besides that, I've been invited to take black
bass with her out of a certain stream in the Shenandoah Valley, and to
kill a deer or two, with headquarters at an old house up in West
Virginia."
He said this lightly, yet I knew it was not far from the full truth.
He had ideas of changes and reforms, and was prepared to fight for
them. As for Jean and the fishing and the shooting, that was a matter
of course. He must get out to nature, and he must have her with him
certainly. As for me, personally--well, we had fought the world
together for many a year, and I never knew him to fail me, and I could
not very well fail him. I worried about this battle, though we had
gained steadily. There was an element in the district, led by shrewd
politicians, of the graduated saloon-keeper type, which did not lack
large numbers. Outside one ward, though we had practically beaten
them, Grant had invoked everything. He had stood up squarely on every
platform, and as well in every drinking-shop and den, and almost
bagnio, and explained to whom he found the nature of the contest, and
told them what he wanted to do, and what all the hearings were, and
told them then to conduct themselves as they pleased--he had but put
his case as it was.
And there are men among the thugs, and humanity is not altogether bad,
even in the slums, and help had come to us from unexpected places.
More than one man, brutal-looking, but with lines in his countenance
showing that he had once been something better, came around and worked
well, and all to his future advantage, for Harlson's memory of such
things was as the memory of that cardinal--what was his name?--who
never forgot a face or incident or figure. We were what the
politicians call "on top," a week before election, save in that same
Ninth Ward. I had seen old Gunderson myself. He was not what we call
affable. I had to wander through many offices, and finally to send in
my card. I found this burly man in his private room, looking over
papers on his desk. He did not look up as I came in. I took a seat,
unasked, and waited. It was five minutes before he turned his head.
Then he muttered a "good-morning," for we had met before.
I tried to be companionable and easy. I returned his salutation,
somewhat too effusively, it may be, and asked him about his business,
and then wanted to know, in a general way, how be stood on the
Congressional issue. He hardened in a moment.
"I don't know why I should support Harlson," he said.
"Isn't he honest?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," he grunted; "but he's not my kind."
"Is the other man?" I asked.
Even the burly animal before me flushed. The other man was but a
tricky politician of the creeping sort, a caterer to all prejudices,
and a flatterer and favorer. This everybody knew. But he had become a
part of the machine, was shrewd, and, with the machine behind him, was
a power.
"I've nothing to say about that; but Harlson's not my kind. He's like
one of those stag-hounds. He has nothing to do with the other dogs."
"He's fought some of the other dogs," I suggested.
The man grunted, again: "He's not my kind." And I left the place. I
had little hope of the Ninth Ward.