How the Boss saved himself
He whom they had, with facetious intent, called "the Boss of Little Arcady" now began to wear a mien of defiance. From being confessedly distraught, he displayed, as the days went by, a spiritual uplift that fell but little short of arrogance. He did not permit any reason to be revealed for this marked change of demeanor. He was confident but secretive, serene but furtive, as one who has endured gibes for the sake of one brilliant coup.
This apparently causeless change permeated even to the columns of the Argus. It had been observed by more than one of us that these had of late suffered from the depression of their editor. Their general tone had been negative. Now they spoke in a lightsome tone of self-sufficiency. They were gay, even jaunty. It was in this very epoch that the verse was born which for many years sang blithely from the top of the first column—sang of Denney's public-spirited optimism as to Slocum County and the Little Country.
Keep your eye on Slocum,
She's all right!
Her skies are clear and full of cheer,
And all her prospects bright.
As pointing more specifically to the incubus of Potts, there was this:—
"Lots of people are saying that we have met our Waterloo. They forget that Waterloo was a victory as well as a defeat. Two men met it, and the name of one was Wellington. Look it up in your encyclopædia."
But the faction of Potts, it should be noted, saw no reason to be impressed by a vaunting so vague. It had not tempered its hopefulness.
Its idol was jubilant, careless as a schoolboy, babbling but sober. The Banner still challenged the world with its page-wide line: "Potts Forever! Potts the Coming Man!"
Certain hopeful souls among the opposition had taken counsel how they might cause Potts to fall by means of strong drink. They had observed that the mill-race was still significantly uncovered. But to all invitations, all cunning incitements to indulgence, Potts was urbanely resistant. Conscious that a river of strong waters rippled at his feet, freely to be partaken of did he choose, it is true that his face showed lines of restraint, a serene restraint, like unto that which the great old painters limned so beautifully upon the face of the martyr. But the martyrs of old in their ecstasy were not more resolute than Potts. It is probable that he looked forward to a period of post-election refreshment; but pending the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November, his determination was such that it stamped his face with something akin to dignity. Said Westley Keyts, "If it was raining whiskey, Potts wouldn't drink as much as he could ketch on a fork!" and to this the town agreed. For once Potts was firm.
His alpaca suit had visibly deteriorated during the campaign, and his tall hat again cried for the glossing ministry of a heated iron, but his virtue burgeoned under stress and flowered to beauty in the sight of men. It was understood at last that the mill-race might as well be covered for any adventitious relation it could sustain to Potts drunk.
Westley Keyts's suggestion that Potts be weighted with pig-iron and dumped into the healing waters, drunk or sober, was the mere playfulness of an excellent butcher unpractised in sarcasm. His offer to supply, free of cost, a quantity of pig-iron ample for the purpose left this hypothesis unavoidable, for Westley winked flagrantly and leered when he voiced it.
But a retribution subtler than mere drowning awaited the superfluous Potts; a retribution so simple of mechanism, so swift, so potent, and wrought with a talent so masterly, that the right of its instigator to the title of Boss of Little Arcady seemed to be unassailable for all future time.
At the very zenith of his heavenward flight Potts was brought low. At the very nethermost point of his downward swoop Solon Denney was raised to a height so dizzy that even the erstwhile sceptic spirit of Westley Keyts abased itself before him, frankly conceding that diplomacy's innocent and mush-like surface might conceal springs of a terrible potency.
Though Solon's public mien for a week or more had been hint enough of his secret to those who knew him well, I was, possibly, the first to whom he confided it in words.
He sent for me one crisp October morning, and I rushed over to the Argus office, knowing that he must have matters of importance to communicate.
I found him pacing the little sanctum, scanning a still damp sheet of proof. His brow was furrowed, but the lines were those of conscious power. In the broken chair by the littered desk sat Billy Durgin, his eyes ablaze with the lust of the chase. As I pushed into the dingy little room Solon halted in his walk and, with a flourish that did not entirely lack the dramatic, he handed me the narrow strip of paper. The item was brief.
"Mrs. J. Rodney Potts, the estimable wife of Colonel J. Rodney Potts of this town, will arrive here from the East next Thursday to make her home among us."
I looked up, to find them eager for my comment.
"Is it true?" I asked.
"It is," said Solon. "I shall meet the lady on the arrival of the eleven-eight train next Thursday."
"Well—what of it?"
"We are now about to see 'what of it.' My trusty and fearless young lieutenant here"—he indicated Billy, who coughed in his hand and looked modestly out the window—"is now about to beard Potts in his den and find out 'what of it.' I may say that we hope there will be a good deal of it. I gather as much from the correspondence of the last three weeks with the lady referred to in that simple galley proof, which I set up and pulled with my own hands. In this opinion I am not alone. It is shared by my able and dauntless young coadjutor, before whom I can see a future so brilliant that you need smoked glasses to look at it very long at a time."
The gallant young detective turned from the window.
"The hour has come to strike our blow," he remarked, his brow contracting to a scowl that boded no good to a certain upright citizen of this great republic.
"I have thought it best," resumed Solon, "to take Potts into our confidence at precisely this stage—giving him this exclusive news one day in advance of its publication. To-morrow, when every one knows it, Potts might be rash enough to stay and brave it out. Being advised to-day, privately, and thus afforded a chance to fade gracefully into the great bounding West, he may use his common sense. Now then, officer, do your duty!"
Our hero arose from his chair, buttoned his coat, passed a hand caressingly over his hip pocket, took the proof from me, and stalked grimly out.
"So the lady is really coming?" I asked, as Billy's footsteps died away down the wooden stairs.
"She is, the lady and her little son," said Solon, resuming his walk up and down the room. "She is coming all the way from Boston, Massachusetts. And I don't believe she quite knows what she's coming to. She speaks in a strange manner of her hope that she may be able to do good among us, and in her last letter she wants to know if I have ever seen a little book called 'One Hundred Common Errors in Speaking and Writing.' She seems to have the missionary instinct, as nearly as I can judge."
He paused in his walk and lowered his voice impressively.
"Between you and me, Cal,—you know I've had about six letters from her,—it's just possible that Potts had his reasons. I don't say he did, mind you,—but strange things happen in this world.
"But that's neither here nor there," he went on more lightly. "Potts has brought it on himself."
In silence, then, we awaited the return of the messenger. The moment was tensely electric when at last we heard the clatter of his boots on the stairway. Breathless, he entered and stood before us, his coolness for once destroyed under the strain of his adventure. Solon helped him to a chair with soothing words.
"Take it easy now, Billy! Get your breath—there—that's good! Now tell us all about it—just what you said and just what he said and just what talk there was back and forth."
"Gosh-all-Hemlock!" spluttered Billy, not yet equal to his best narrative style.
We waited. He drew a dozen long breaths before he was again the cold, self-possessed, steely-eyed avenger.
"Well," he began brightly, "I gains access to our man in his wretched den on the second floor of the Eubanks Block. As good luck would have it, he was alone by hisself, walkin' up and down, swingin' his arms like he was practisin' one o' them speeches of his.
"Well, I had it all fixed up fine how I was goin' to act, and what I was goin' to say to him, and how I'd back up a few paces against the wall and say, 'Not a word above a whisper, or I'll send this bullet through your craven heart!' and he'd fall down on his knees and beg me in vain for mercy and so on. But Gee! the minute I seen him I got all nervoused up and I jest says, 'Here, read that there piece—your wife's comin' next Thursday!'
"Well, sir, at those careless words of mine he gives a guilty start, his face blanched with horror, and he hissed through his set teeth, 'Which one?'—as quick as that.
"Me?—I couldn't git out a word for a minute, and he started for me. 'Which one?' he repeats, hoarse with rage, and that gives me an idee. 'Stand back!' I cried fearlessly, 'stand back, coward that you are—make no word of outcry, or it will go hard with you—they're both comin',' I says,—'this one's comin' next week and the other one's comin' the week after, soon as she can git some sewin' done up.' Me?—I was leadin' him on, you understand—for we hadn't knowed there was more than one. Well, at that he read the piece over and set down in his chair with both hands up to his head and he says, 'I'm bein' hounded by a venal press, that's what's the matter; I'm bein' hounded from pillar to post.'
"At this I broke in with a sneer,—'Oh, we've only just began,' I says. 'We'll have the whole lot of 'em here inside of six weeks—children and all.' 'It's a lie,' he hissed at me. 'There ain't any more.'
"'Have a care, Colonel Potts,' I exclaimed, 'or first thing you know you will rue those there words bitterly! I will not brook your dastardly insults,' I says, 'and besides,' I added with a sudden idee, 'it looks like two wives will warm things up plenty for you.'
"At them words his craven face turned an ashen gray, and he fastened upon me a glare of baffled rage that might well have made a stouter heart quail before it, but I returned his glare fearlessly and backed swif'ly to the door, feelin' for the knob. When I found it, I got quickly out, without a blow bein' struck or a shot fired. Then I run here."
Early in the narrative Solon had begun to beam, identifying readily the slender but important vertebræ of fact upon which Billy had organized this drama of his fancy. At the close he shook hands warmly with our hero.
"This has been a splendid day's work, William Durgin!" and Billy beamed in his turn.
"I wasn't goin' to let him know we thought there was only one," he said.
"Precisely where your training showed, my boy. Any one could have handed Potts that proof, but it took you to handle the case after the scoundrel had said 'Which one?' Well, it's Potts's move now. If he doesn't move, we'll just add this to the item: 'Mrs. J. Rodney Potts, wife of Colonel J. Rodney Potts, will arrive again the following week. The ladies anticipate an interesting time in meeting their mutual husband.' How's that?"
Billy's eyes glistened—he was yearning for just that situation.
"But if Potts does move," added Solon, "not a word about the second lady. We won't take a mean advantage, even of Potts."
At six o'clock that evening the following facts became known: that Colonel Potts had obtained a quart of whiskey from Barney Skeyhan; that he had borrowed twenty dollars from the same trustful tradesman; that, his cane in one hand and his oilcloth valise in the other, he had walked down Main Street late in the afternoon and boarded the five twenty-eight freight going West, ostensibly on a business trip into the next county.
Not until the next morning was it known that Potts had left us forever. This came from "Big Joe" Kestril. The two had met at the depot and drunk fraternally from the bottle of Potts, discussing the thing frankly, meanwhile.
"They've hounded me out of town," said the Colonel.
"How?" said Big Joe.
"They sent for Mrs. Potts to come here—it's infamous, sir!"
It appeared that Potts had said further: "I can't understand the men of this town at all. It looks as if I have been trifled with, much as I dislike to think so. One minute they crowd letters on to me, praising me up to the skies, and print pieces in the paper saying that nothing is too good for me and my departure is a public loss, and why won't I remain and be a credit to the town and a lot more like that, good and strong. Then when I do consent to remain, why, what do they do? Do they grasp my hand and say, 'Ah, good old Potts—stanch Potts, loyal Potts—good for you—you won't desert the town!' Do they talk that way? No, they do not. Instead of talking like a body would think they'd talk after all those letters and things, why, they turn and fling abuse at me—and now—now they've gone and done this hellish thing! I won't say a word against any man, but in my opinion they're a passel of knaves and lunatics. Look at me, Joe. Yesterday I was a made man; to-day I'm all ruined up! I merely state facts and let you draw your own conclusions."
The conclusions which Big Joe drew, such as they were, he was unable to communicate intelligibly until the morrow, for the train was late and they drank of the liquor until the Colonel had time to lament his improvidence in bringing away so little of it. And by the time Big Joe's report was abroad, both the Banner and the Argus were out. The item in the latter concerning Mrs. Potts had been only a little altered.
"Mrs. J. Rodney Potts, wife of Colonel J. Rodney Potts, until yesterday a resident of this town, will arrive here next Thursday from Boston, Massachusetts, to make her home among us. She is an estimable and cultured lady, and we bespeak for her a warm welcome to this garden-spot of the mid-West."
Across the top of the Banner's first page was its campaign slogan as usual:—
"Potts Forever! Potts the Coming Man!"
Across the top of the Argus in similar type ran the pregnant line:—