“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.