Part 21 (2/2)
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.”
”But how can that be?”
”Were you at Mrs. Gorson's party?”
”No.”
”Jean was there, though.”
”Yes.”
”So was Mrs. Gunderson.”
The man's face was a study worth the scrutiny. For a moment or two he uttered no word. The whole measurement of it was dawning on him. ”The little rhinoceros-bird!” he said, softly.
The room was thronged, and there was a roar of cheers. The issue was decided beyond all question. The newspaper offices were flas.h.i.+ng out the fact from illuminated windows. There were shouting crowds upon the streets. Hosts of people were grasping Harlson's hand. He had little to say save to thank them in a perfunctory manner. He was in a hurry to get home.
When I dined with Harlson the next day I hoped to learn some details, but I was disappointed. Jean was herself a trifle radiant, perhaps, for she remarked to me, apropos of nothing, and in the most casual way, that men were dull, and Harlson had little to say. Judging from his general demeanor, though, and the expression on his face, I would have given something to know what he said to his wife when he reached home the night before. Something no bachelor, I imagine, could comprehend.
And before the year ended Harlson had the Ninth Ward so that it couldn't bolt him under any ordinary circ.u.mstances.
CHAPTER x.x.xI.
THEIR FOOLISH WAYS.
<script>