[Illustration: THE BOSS OF LITTLE ARCADY]
[Illustration: "A-CHESTIN' OUT HIS CHEST LAHK A OLE MA'ASH FRAWG."]
THE BOSS OF LITTLE ARCADY
BY
HARRY LEON WILSON
1905
TO
MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
_THE BOOK OF COLONEL POTTS_
CHAPTER
I. How the Boss won his Title
II. The Golden Day of Colonel Potts
III. The Perfect Lover
IV. Dreams and Wakings
V. A Mad Prank of the Gods
VI. A Matter of Personal Property
VII. "A World of Fine Fabling"
VIII. Adventure of Billy Durgin, Sleuth
IX. How the Boss saved Himself
X. A Lady of Powers
XI. How Little Arcady was Uplifted
XII. Troubled Waters are Stilled
_THE BOOK OF MISS CAROLINE_
XIII. A Catastrophe in Furniture
XIV. The Coming of Miss Caroline
XV. Little Arcady views a Parade
XVI. The Spectre of Scandal is Raised
XVII. The Truth about Shakspere at Last
XVIII. In which the Game was Played
XIX. A Worthless Black Hound
XX. In which Something must be Done
XXI. Little Arcady is grievously Shaken
_THE BOOK OF LITTLE MISS_
XXII. The Time of Dreams
XXIII. The Strain of Peavey
XXIV. The Loyalty of Jim
XXV. The Case of Fatty Budlow
XXVI. A Little Mystery is Solved
XXVII. How a Truce was Troublesome
XXVIII. The Abdication of the Boss
XXIX. In which All Rules are Broken
XXX. By Another Hand
ILLUSTRATIONS
"A chestin' out his chest lahk a ole ma'ash
frawg"
"And yet I have been pestered by cheap flings
at my personal bearing"
"We might get him to make a barrel of it for
the Sunday-school picnic"
"That will do," I said severely. "Remember
there is a gentleman present"
The Book of
COLONEL POTTS
CHAPTER I
HOW THE BOSS WON HIS TITLE
=Late last Thursday evening one Jonas Rodney Potts, better known to this
community as "Upright" Potts, stumbled into the mill-race, where it had
providentially been left open just north of Cady's mill. Everything was
going along finely until two hopeless busybodies were attracted to the
spot by his screams, and fished him out. It is feared that he will
recover. We withhold the names of his rescuers, although under strong
temptation to publish them broadcast.--_Little Arcady Argus_ of May
21st.=
Looking back to that time from a happier present, I am filled by a
genuine awe of J. Rodney Potts. Reflecting upon those benign ends which
the gods chose to make him serve, I can but marvel how lightly each of
us may meet and scorn a casual Potts, unrecking his gracious and
predestined office in the play of Fate.
Of the present--to me--supreme drama of the Little Country, I can only
say that the gods had selected their agent with a cunning so flawless
that suspicion of his portents could not well have been aroused in one
lacking discernment like unto the gods' very own. So trivially, so
utterly, so pitiably casual, to eyes of the flesh, was this Potts of
Little Arcady, from his immortal soul to the least item of his inferior
raiment!
Thus craftily are we fooled by the Lords of Destiny, whose caprice it is
to affect remoteness from us and a lofty unconcern for our poor little
doings.
There is bitterness in the lines of that _Argus_ paragraph, and a
flippant incivility might be read between them by the least discerning.
Arcady of the Little Country, however, knows there is neither bitterness
nor real cynicism in Solon Denney, founder, editor, and proprietor of
the _Little Arcady Argus_; motto, "Hew to the Line, Let the Chips Fall
Where they May!" Indeed, we do know Solon. Often enough has the _Argus_
hewn inexorably to the line, when that line led straight through the
heart of its guiding genius and through the hearts of us all. One who
had seen him, as I did, stand uncovered in the presence of his new
Washington hand-press, the day that dynamo of Light was erected in the
_Argus_ office, could never suppose him to lack humanity or the just
reverence demanded by his craft.
We may concede without disloyalty that Solon is peculiar unto himself.
In his presence you are cursed with an unquiet suspicion that he may
become frivolous with you at any moment,--may, indeed, be so at that
moment, despite a due facial gravity and tones of weight,--for he will
not infrequently seem to be both trivial and serious in the same breath.
Again, he is amazingly sensitive for one not devoid of humor. In a
pleasant sense he is acutely aware of himself, and he does not dislike
to know that you feel his quality. Still again, he is bound to spice his
writing. Were it his lot to report events on the Day of Judgment, I
believe the _Argus_ account would be thought too highly colored by many
persons of good taste.
But Little Arcady knows that Solon is loyal to its welfare--knows that
he is fit to wield the mightiest lever of Civilization in its behalf on
Wednesday of each week.
We know now, moreover, that an undercurrent of circumstance existed
which did not even ripple the surface of that apparently facetious
brutality hurled at J. Rodney Potts.
The truth may not be told in a word. But it was in this affair that
Solon Denney won his title of "Boss of Little Arcady," a title first
rendered unto him somewhat in derision, I regret to say, by a number of
our leading citizens, who sought, as it were, to make sport of him.
It began in a jest, as do all the choicest tragedies of the gods,--a few
lines of idle badinage, meant to spice Solon's column of business locals
with a readable sprightliness. The thing was printed, in fact, between
"Let Harpin Cust shine your face with his new razors" and "See that line
of clocks at Chislett's for sixty cents. They look like cuckoos and keep
good time."
"Not much news this week," the item blithely ran, "so we hereby start
the rumor that 'Upright' Potts is going to leave town. We would incite
no community to lawless endeavor, but--may the Colonel encounter swiftly
in his new environment that warm reception to which his qualities of
mind, no less than his qualities of heart, so richly entitle him,--that
reception, in short, which our own debilitated public spirit has timidly
refused him. We claim the right to start any rumor of this sort that
will cheer the souls of an admiring constituency. Now is the time to pay
up that subscription."
The intention, of course, was openly playful--a not subtle sally meant
to be read and forgotten. Yet--will it be credited?--more than one of us
read it so hurriedly, perhaps with so passionate a longing to have it
the truth, as not to perceive its satirical indirections. The rumor
actually lived for a day that Potts was to disembarrass the town of his
presence.
And then, from the fictitious stuff of this rumor was spawned a
veritable inspiration. Several of our most public-spirited citizens
seemed to father it simultaneously.
"Why should Potts _not_ leave town--why should he not seek out a new
field of effort?"
"Field of effort" was a rank bit of poesy, it being certain that Potts
would never make an effort worthy of the name in any field whatsoever;
but the sense of it was plain.
Increasingly with the years had plans been devised to alleviate the
condition of Potts's residence among us. Some of these had required a
too definite and artificial abruptness in the mechanics of his removal;
others, like Eustace Eubanks's plot for having all our best people
refuse to notice him, depended upon a sensitiveness in the person aimed
at which he did not possess. Besides, there had been talk of disbarring
him from the practice of his profession, and I, as a lawyer, had been
urged to instigate that proceeding. Unquestionably there was ground for
it.
But now this random pleasantry of Solon Denney's set our minds to
working in another direction.
In the broad, pleasant window of the post-office, under the "NO LOAFING
HERE!" sign, half a dozen of us discussed it while we waited for the
noon mail. There seemed to be a half-formed belief that Potts might
adroitly be made to perceive advantages in leaving us.
"It's a whole lot better to manipulate and be subtle in a case like
this," suggested the editor of the _Argus_. "Threats of violence,
forcible expulsion, disbarment proceedings--all crude--and besides they
won't move Potts. Jonas Rodney may not be gifted with a giant intellect,
but he is cunning."
"The cunning of a precocious boy," prompted Eustace Eubanks, who was one
of us. "He is well aware that we would not dare attempt lawless
violence."
"Exactly, Eustace," answered Solon. "I tell you, gentlemen, this
thriving little town needs a canning factory, as we all know; but more
than a canning factory it needs a Boss,--one of those strong characters
that make tools of their fellow-men, who rule our cities with an iron
hand but take care to keep the hand in a velvet glove,--a Boss that is
diplomatic, yet an autocrat."
That careless use of the term "Boss" was afterward seen to be
unfortunate for Solon. They remembered it against him.
"That's right," said Westley Keyts. "Let's be diplomatic with him."
"How would _you_ begin, Westley, if you don't mind telling us?" Solon
had already begun to shape a scheme of his own.
"Why," answered Westley, looking very earnest, "just go up to him in a
quiet, refined manner--no blustering, understand--and say in a low tone,
kind of off-hand but serious, 'Now, look a' here, Potts, old boy, let's
talk this thing over like a couple of gentlemen had ought to.' 'Well,
all right,' says Potts, 'that's fair--I couldn't refuse _that_ as from
one gentleman to another gentleman.' Well, then, say to him, 'Now,
Potts, you know as well as any man in this town that you're an all-round
no-good--you're a human _Not_--and a darn scalawag into the bargain. So
what's the _use_? Will you go, or won't you?' Then if he'd begin to hem
and haw and try to put it off with one thing or another, why, just hint
in a roundabout way--perfectly genteel, you understand--that there'd be
doings with a kittle of tar and feathers that same night at
eight-thirty sharp, rain or shine, with a free ride right afterward to
the town line and mebbe a bit beyond, without no cushions. Up about the
Narrows would be a good place to say farewell," he concluded
thoughtfully.
We had listened patiently enough, but this was too summary. Westley
Keyts is our butcher, a good, honest, energetic, downright business man
with a square forehead and a blunt jaw and red hair that bristles with
challenges. But he seems compelled to say too nearly what he means to
render him useful in negotiations requiring any considerable finesse.
"We were speaking, Westley, of the gentle functions of diplomacy,"
remarked Solon, cuttingly. "Of course, we _could_ waylay Potts and kill
him with one of your cleavers and have his noble head stuffed and
mounted to hang up over Barney Skeyhan's bar, but it wouldn't be
subtle--it would not be what the newspapers call 'a triumph of
diplomacy'! And then, again, reports of it might be carried to other
towns, and talk would be caused."
"Now, say," retorted Westley, somewhat abashed, "I was thinking I
answered all _that_ by winding up the way like I did, asking him,--not
mad-like, you understand,--'Now will you go or _won't_ you?' just like
that. All I can say is, if that ain't diplomacy, then I don't know what
in Time diplomacy _is_!"
I think we conceded this, in silence, be it understood, for Westley is
respected. But we looked to Solon for a more tenuous subtlety. Nor did
he fail us. Two days later Potts upon the public street actually
announced his early departure from Little Arcady.
To know how pleasing an excitement this created one should know more
about Potts. It will have been inferred that he was objectionable. For
the fact, he was objectionable in every way: as a human being, a man, a
citizen, a member of the Slocum County bar, and a veteran of our late
civil conflict. He was shiftless, untidy, a borrower, a pompous
braggart, a trouble-maker, forever driving some poor devil into
senseless litigation. Moreover, he was blithely unscrupulous in his
dealings with the Court, his clients, his brother-attorneys, and his
fellow-men at large. When I add that he was given to spells of hard
drinking, during which he became obnoxious beyond the wildest possible
dreams of that quality, it will be seen that we of Little Arcady were
not without reason for wishing him away.
He had drifted casually in upon us after the war, accompanied somewhat
elegantly by one John Randolph Clement Tuckerman, an ex-slave. He came
with much talk of his regiment,--a fat-cheeked, florid man of forty-five
or so, with shifty blue eyes and an address moderately insinuating. Very
tall he was, and so erect that he seemed to lean a little backward. This
physical trait, combining with a fancy for referring to himself freely
as "an upright citizen of this reunited and glorious republic, sir!" had
speedily made him known as "Upright" Potts. He was of a slender build
and a bony frame, except in front. His long, single-breasted frock-coat
hung loosely enough about his shoulders, yet buttoned tightly over a
stomach that was so incongruous as to seem artificial. The sleeves of
the coat were glossy from much desk rubbing, and its front advertised a
rather inattentive behavior at table. The Colonel's dress was completed
by drab overgaiters and poorly draped trousers of the same once-delicate
hue. Upon his bald head, which was high and peaked, like Sir Walter
Scott's, he carried a silk hat in an inferior state of preservation.
When he began to drink it was his custom to repair at once to a barber
and submit to having his side-whiskers trimmed fastidiously. Sober, he
seemed to feel little pride of person, and his whiskers at such a time
merely called attention somewhat unprettily to his lack of a chin. His
other possessions were an ebony walking stick with a gold head and what
he referred to in moments of expansion as his "library." This consisted
of a copy of the Revised Statutes, a directory of Cincinnati, Ohio, for
the year 1867, and two volumes of Patent Office reports.
At the time of which I speak the Colonel had long been sober, and the
day that Solon Denney completed those mysterious negotiations with him
he was as far from conventional standards of the beautiful as I remember
to have seen him.
The guise of Solon's subtlety, the touch of his iron hand in a glove of
softest velvet, had been in this wise: he had pointed out to the Colonel
that there were richer fields of endeavor to the west of us; newer,
larger towns, fitter abodes for a man of his parts; communities which
had honors and emoluments to lavish upon the worthy,--prizes which it
would doubtless never be in our poor power to bestow.
Potts was stirred by all this, but he was not blinded to certain
disadvantages,--"a stranger in a strange land," etc., while in Little
Arcady he had already "made himself known."
But, suggested Solon, with a ready wit, if the stranger were to go
fortified with certificates of character from the leading citizens of
his late home?
This was a thing to consider. Potts reflected more favorably; but still
he hesitated. He was unable to believe that these certificates of his
excellence might be obtained. The bar and the commercial element of
Little Arcady had been cold, not to say suspicious, toward him. It was
an unpleasant thing to mention, but a cabal had undeniably been formed.
Solon was politely incredulous. He pledged his word of honor as a
gentleman to provide the letters,--a laudatory, an uplifting letter,
from every citizen in town whose testimony would be of weight; also a
half-column of fit praise in the next issue of the _Argus_, twelve
copies of which Potts should freely carry off with him for judicious
scattering about the fortunate town in which his journey should end.
Then Potts spoke openly of the expenses of travel. Solon, royally
promising a purse of gold to take him on his way, clenched the winning
of a neat and bloodless victory.
No one has ever denied that Denney must have employed a faultless, an
incomparable tact, to bring J. Rodney Potts to this agreement. By tact
alone had he achieved that which open sneers, covert insult, abuse,
ridicule, contumely, and forthright threats had failed to consummate,
and in the first flush of the news we all felt much as Westley Keyts
said he did.
"Solon Denney is some subtler than me," said Westley, in a winning
spirit of concession; "I can see that, now. He's the Boss of Little
Arcady after this, all right, so far as _I_ know."
Nevertheless, there was misgiving about the letters for Potts. Old Asa
Bundy, our banker, wanted to know, somewhat peevishly, if it seemed
quite honest to send Potts to another town with a satchel full of
letters certifying to his rare values as a man and a citizen. What would
that town think of us two or three days later?
"This is no time to split hairs, Bundy," said Solon; and I believe I
added, "Don't be quixotic, Mr. Bundy!"
Hereupon Westley Keyts broke in brightly.
"Why, now, they'll see in a minute that the whole thing was meant as a
joke. They'll see that the laugh is on _them_, and they'll have a lot of
fun out of it, and then send the old cuss along to another town with
some more funny letters to fool the next ones." "That's all very
_well_, but it isn't high conduct," insisted Bundy.
Westley Keyts now achieved the nearest approach to diplomacy I have ever
known of him.
"Oh, well, Asa, after all, this is a world of give and take. 'Live and
let live' is my motto."
"We must use common sense in these matters, you know, Bundy," observed
Solon, judicially.
And that sophistry prevailed, for we were weak unto faintness from our
burden.
We gave letters setting forth that J. Rodney Potts was the ideal
inhabitant of a city larger than our own. We glowed in describing the
virtues of our departing townsman; his honesty of purpose, his integrity
of character, his learning in the law, his wide range of achievement,
civic and military,--all those attributes that fitted him to become a
stately ornament and a tower of strength to any community larger in the
least degree than our own modest town.
And there was the purse. Fifty dollars was suggested by Eustace Eubanks,
but Asa Bundy said that this would not take Potts far enough. Eustace
said that a man could travel an immense distance for fifty dollars.
Bundy retorted that an ordinary man might perhaps go far enough on that
sum, but not Potts.
"If we are to perpetrate this outrage at all," insisted Bundy, pulling
in calculation at his little chin-whisker, "let us do it thoroughly. A
hundred dollars can't take Potts any too far. We must see that he keeps
going until he could never get back--" We all nodded to this.
"--and another thing, the farther away from this town those letters are
read,--why, the better for our reputations."
A hundred dollars it was. Purse and letters were turned over to Solon
Denney to deliver to Potts. The _Argus_ came out with its promised
eulogy, a thing so fulsome that any human being but J. Rodney Potts
would have sickened to read it of himself.
But our little town was elated. One could observe that last day a
subdued but confident gayety along its streets as citizens greeted one
another.
On every hand were good fellowship and kind words, the light-hearted
salute, the joyous mien. It was an occasion that came near to being
festal, and Solon Denney was its hero. He sought to bear his honors with
the modesty that is native to him, but in his heart he knew that we now
spoke of him glibly as the Boss of Little Arcady, and the consciousness
of it bubbled in his manner in spite of him.
When it was all over,--though I had not once raised my voice in protest,
and had frankly connived with the others,--I confess that I felt shame
for us and pity for the friendless man we were sending out into the
world. Something childlike in his acceptance of the proposal, a few
phrases of naive enthusiasm for his new prospects, repeated to me by
Solon, touched me strangely. It was, therefore, with real embarrassment
that I read the _Argus_ notice. "With profound regret," it began, "we
are obliged to announce to our readers the determination of our
distinguished fellow-townsman, Colonel J. Rodney Potts, to shake the
dust of Little Arcady from his feet. Deaf to entreaties from our leading
citizens, the gallant Colonel has resolved that in simple justice to
himself he must remove to some larger field of action, where his native
genius, his flawless probity, and his profound learning in the law may
secure for him those richer rewards which a man of his unusual caliber
commendably craves and so abundantly merits."
There followed an overflowing half-column of warmest praise, embodying
felicitations to the unnamed city so fortunate as to secure this
"peerless pleader and Prince of Gentlemen." It ended with the assurance
that Colonel Potts would take with him the cordial good-will of every
member of a community to which he had endeared himself, no less by his
sterling civic virtues than by his splendid qualities of mind and heart.
The thing filled me with an indignant pity. I tried in vain to sleep. In
the darkness of night our plan came to seem like an atrocious outrage
upon a guileless, defenceless ne'er-do-well. For my share of the guilt,
I resolved to convey to Potts privately on the morrow a more than
perfunctory promise of aid, should he find himself distressed at any
time in what he would doubtless term his new field of endeavor.