"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.