I do not know that I ever enjoyed a party more, yet I did nothing on that occasion, save to watch at a distance the two people I have mentioned.  They drifted along together, and there was soon a group about them.  Was not Mrs. Grant Harlson a social power, and was not a friend of hers fit friend and confidant for any one?  I do not understand the ways of women.  I do not comprehend their manner of doing things, but I know a thing when it is done.  And when that party ended I knew that fat Mrs. Gunderson had risen to a higher plane than she had dared to covet for the time, and that she knew who had accomplished it.  Grant was not present at the party, and of the incident I told him nothing then.  I wanted him to note its possible sequence first.

The day of election came, and a great day it was.  Outside the Ninth Ward we had passed beyond our hopes.  That ward, though,—­at least from the first reports, and we paid slight attention to the later ones,—­remained, through Gunderson, sullen, incomprehensible, uncommitted.  And at night, the voting over, newspapers began to show the bulletins as the ballots were counted and the returns came in.  We were at campaign headquarters and got the figures early.

The scattering returns were satisfactory.  Through most of the district they showed a gain for us over past encounters.  The drift was all our way, but it was not big enough to offset all contingencies.  There was nothing from the Ninth Ward yet.  The counting was slow there.

It was eleven o’clock before the vote of any precinct from the Ninth Ward came in.  It stood as follows: 

Harlson, 71.

Sharkey, 53.

Harlson picked up the filled-out blank, glanced at it, and threw it down again.

“It’s some mistake,” he said; “that precinct is one of the stiffest the other way.  Wait until we get more of them.”

We waited, but not for long.  The returns came fluttering in like pigeons now.  The second read: 

Harlson, 33.

Sharkey, 30.

There dawned a light upon me; but I said no word.  I was interested in watching Harlson’s face.  He was a trifle pale, despite his usual self-control, and was noting the figures carefully.  Added precincts repeated the same story.  Harlson would take up a return, glance at it, compare it with another, and then examine a dozen of them together, for once in his life he was taken unawares, and was at sea.  He left the table at length, lit a cigar, and came over to where I stood, leaning against the wall.

“What does it mean, Alf?  If those figures don’t lie, the Ninth Ward has swung as vigorously for us as it ever did against us.  With an even vote in the ward the chances were about even.  Now, unless I’m dreaming, we own the district.”

“We do.”

“But how is it?  What does it all mean?”

“I suppose it means that Gunderson is with you.”