THE GOLDEN DAY OF COLONEL POTTS
I awoke the next morning under most vivid portents of calamity. I
believe I am neither notional, nor given to small, vulgar superstitions,
but I have learned that this peculiar sensation is never without
significance. I remember that I felt it the night our wagon bridge went
out by high water. I tried to read the presentiment as I dressed. But
not until I was shaving did it relate itself to the going out of Potts.
Then the illumination came with a speed so electric that I gashed my
chin under the shock of it. Instantly I seemed to know, as well as I
know to-day, that the Potts affair had, in some manner, been botched.
So apprehensive was I that I lingered an hour on my little riverside
porch, dreading the events that I felt the day must unfold. Inevitably,
however, I was drawn to the centre of things. Turning down Main Street
at the City Hotel corner, on the way to my office, I had to pass the
barber-shop of Harpin Cust, in front of which I found myself impelled to
stop. Looking over the row of potted geraniums in the window, I beheld
Colonel Potts in the chair, swathed to the chin in the barber's white
cloth, a gaze of dignified admiration riveted upon his counterpart in
the mirror. Seen thus, he was not without a similarity to pictures of
the Matterhorn, his bare, rugged peak rising fearsomely above his
snow-draped bulk. Harpin appeared to be putting the last snipping
touches to the Colonel's too-long neglected side-whiskers. On the table
lay his hat and gold-headed cane, and close at hand stood his bulging
valise.
I walked hastily on. The thing was ominous. Yet, might it not merely
denote that Potts wished to enter upon his new life well barbered? The
bulging bag supported this possibility, and yet I was ill at ease.
Reaching my office, I sought to engage myself with the papers of an
approaching suit, but it was impossible to ignore the darkling cloud of
disaster which impended. I returned to the street anxiously.
On my way to the City Hotel, where I had resolved to await like a man
what calamity there might be, I again passed the barber-shop.
Harpin Cust now leaned, gracefully attentive, on the back of the empty
chair, absently swishing his little whisk broom. Before him was planted
Potts, his left foot advanced, his head thrown back, reading to Harpin
from a spread page of the _Argus_. I divined that he was reading Solon's
comment upon himself, and I shuddered.
As I paused at the door of the hotel Potts emerged from the barber-shop.
In one hand he carried his bag, in the other his cane and the _Little
Arcady Argus_. His hat was a bit to one side, and it seemed to me
that he was leaning back farther than usual. He had started briskly down
the street in the opposite direction from me, but halted on meeting
Eustace Eubanks. The Colonel put down his bag and they shook hands.
Eustace seemed eager to pass on, but the Colonel detained him and began
reading from the _Argus_. His voice carried well on the morning air, and
various phrases, to which he gave the full meed of emphasis, floated to
me on the gentle breeze. "That peerless pleader and Prince of
Gentlemen," came crisply to my ears. Eustace appeared to be restive, but
the Colonel, through caution, or, perhaps, mere friendliness, had moored
him by a coat lapel.
The reading done, I saw that Eustace declined some urgent request of the
Colonel's, drawing away the moment his coat was released. As they
parted, my worst fears were confirmed, for I saw the Colonel progress
flourishingly to the corner and turn in under the sign, "Barney Skeyhan;
Choice Wines, Liquors, and Cigars."
"What did he say?" I asked of Eustace as he came up.
"It was exceedingly distasteful, Major." Eustace was not a little
perturbed by the encounter. "He read every word of that disgusting
article in the _Argus_ and then he begged me to go into that Skeyhan's
drinking-place with him and have a glass of liquor. I said very sharply,
'Colonel Potts, I have never known the taste of liquor in my whole life
nor used tobacco in any form.' At that he looked at me in the utmost
astonishment and said: 'Bless my soul! _Really?_ Young man, don't you
put it off another day--life is awful uncertain.' 'Why, Colonel,' I
said, '_that_ isn't any way to talk,' but he simply tore down the
street, saying that I was taking great chances."
"And now he is reading his piece to Barney Skeyhan!" I groaned.
"Rum is the scourge of our American civilization," remarked Eustace,
warmly.
"Barney Skeyhan's rum would scourge anybody's civilization," I said.
"Of course I meant _all_ civilization," suggested Eustace, in polite
help to my lame understanding.
Precisely at nine o'clock Potts issued from Skeyhan's, bearing his bag,
cane, and _Argus_ as before. He looked up and down the quiet street
interestedly, then crossed over to Hermann Hoffmuller's, another
establishment in which our civilization was especially menaced. He was
followed cordially by five of Little Arcady's lesser citizens, who had
obviously sustained the relation of guests to him at Skeyhan's. In
company with Westley Keyts and Eubanks, I watched this procession from
the windows of the City Hotel. Solon Denney chanced to pass at the
moment, and we hailed him.
"Oh, I'll soon fix _that_," said Solon, confidently. "Don't you worry!"
And forthwith he sent Billy Durgin, who works in the City Hotel, to
Hoffmuller's. He was to remind Colonel Potts that his train left at
eleven-eight.
Billy returned with news. Potts was reading the piece to Hoffmuller and
a number of his patrons. Further, he had bought, and the crowd was then
consuming, the two fly-specked bottles of champagne which Hoffmuller had
kept back of his bar, one on either side of a stuffed owl, since the day
he began business eleven years before.
Billy also brought two messages to Solon: one from Potts that he had
been mistaken about the attitude of Little Arcady toward himself--that
he was seeing this more clearly every minute. The other was from
Hoffmuller. Solon Denney was to know that some people might be just as
good as other people who thought themselves a lot better, and would he
please not take some shingles off a man's roof?
Solon, ever the incorrigible optimist, said, "Of course I might have
waited till he was on the train to give him the money; but don't worry,
he'll be ready enough to go when the 'bus starts."
I felt unable to share his confidence. That presentiment had for the
moment corrupted my natural hopefulness.
It was a few moments after ten when Potts next appeared to our group of
anxious watchers. This time he had more friends. They swarmed
respectfully but enthusiastically after him out of Hoffmuller's place, a
dozen at least of our ne'er-do-wells. One of these, "Big Joe" Kestril,
a genial lout of a section-hand, ostentatiously carried the bag and had
an arm locked tenderly through one of the Colonel's. These two led the
procession. It halted at the corner, where the Colonel began to read his
_Argus_ notice to Bela Bedford, our druggist, who had been on the point
of entering his store. But the newspaper had suffered. It was damp from
being laid on bars, and parts of it were in tatters. The reader paused,
midway of the first paragraph, to piece a tear across the column, and
Bedford escaped by dashing into his store. The Colonel, suddenly
discovering that he could recite the thing from memory, did so with
considerable dramatic effect, seeming not to notice the defection of
Bedford. The crowd cheered madly when he had finished, and followed him
across the street to the bar of the City Hotel.
We could now observe better. The bar of the City Hotel is next the
office. A door is open between them with a wooden screen standing before
it. Inside the carouse raged, while we, who had thought to set Potts at
large, listened and wondered. The taller among us could overlook the
screen. We beheld Potts, one elbow resting on the bar, his other hand
with the cane in it waving forward his unreluctant train, while he
loudly inquired if there were drink to be had suitable for a gentleman
who was prepared to spend his money like a lord.
"None of that cooking whiskey, mind--nothing but the best bottled goods,
if you please!" was the next suggestion.
Again the crowd cheered. New faces were constantly appearing. The news
had gone out with an incredible rapidity. Honest men, inflamed by the
report, were leaving their works and speeding to the front from as far
north as the fair-grounds and as far south as the depot.
"Soon," said Potts, after the first drink, "ah, too soon, I shall be
miles away from your thriving little hamlet,--as pretty a spot, by the
way, as God ever made,--seeing none but strange faces, longing for the
old hearty hand-clasps, seeking, perhaps, in vain, for one kindly look
which--which is now to be observed on every hand. But, friends, Colonel
J. Rodney will not forget you. I have rare prospects, but no matter. To
this little spot, the fairest in all Nature,--here among your simple,
heartfelt faces, where I first got my start,--here my feelings will ever
and anon return; for--why should I conceal it?--it is you, my friends,
who have made me the man I am."
Here Potts put an arm over the shoulder of Big Joe and urged pleadingly:
"Another verse of that sweet old song, boys. I tell you that has the
true heart-stuff in it--now--"
They roared out a verse of "Auld Lang Syne," with execrable attempts at
part-singing, little Dan Lefferts, a dissolute house-painter,
contributing a tenor that was simply maniacal.
Potts ordered more drinks. This done, he leaned heavily upon the bar and
burst into tears. The varlets crowded about him with tender, soothing
words, while we in the other room anxiously watched them and the clock.
He was overcome, it seemed, by the affection which it now transpired
that Little Arcady bore for him. Presently he half dried his tears and
drew from an inner pocket of his coat the package of our letters.
With eyes again streaming, in a sob-riven voice, he read them all to the
pleased crowd. At the end, he regained control of himself.
"Gentlemen, believe it or not, nothing has touched me like this since I
bade farewell to my regiment in '65. You are getting under the heart of
Jonas Rodney this time--I can't deny that."
He began on the letters again, selecting the choicest, and not
forgetting at intervals to rebuke the bar-tender for alleged inactivity.
At last the clock marked ten-forty, and we heard the welcome rumble of
the 'bus wheels. There was a hurried consultation with Amos Deane, the
driver. He was to enter the bar in a brisk, businesslike way, seize the
bag, and hustle the Colonel out before he had time to reflect. We peered
over the screen, knowing the fateful moment was come.
We saw the Colonel resist the attack on his bag and listen with marked
astonishment to the assertion of Amos that there was just time to catch
the train.
"Time was made for slaves," said Potts.
"That there train ain't goin' to wait a minute," reminded Amos,
civilly. The Colonel turned upon him with a large sweetness of manner.
"Ah, yes, my friend, but trains will be passing through your pretty
little hamlet for years--I hope for ages--yet. They pass every day, but
you can't have Jonas Rodney Potts every day."
Here, with a gesture, he directed the crowd's attention to Amos.
"Look at him, gentlemen. Speak to him for me--for I cannot. I ask you to
note the condition he's in." Here, again, the Colonel burst into tears.
"And, oh, my God!" he sobbed, "could they ask me to trust myself to a
drunken rowdy of a driver, even if I _was_ going?" Amos was not only
sober, he was a shrewd observer of events, a seasoned judge of men. He
turned away without further parley. Big Joe told him he ought to be in
better business than trying to break up a pleasant party.
As the 'bus started, the strains of "Auld Lang Syne" floated to us
again, and we knew the day was lost.
"A hand of iron in a cunning little velvet glove," said Westley Keyts,
in deep disgust as he left us. "It looks to me a darned sight more like
a hand of mush in a glove of the _same!_"
I have often been brought to realize that the latent nobility in our
human nature is never so effectually aroused as at the second stage of
alcoholic dementia. The victim sustains a shock of illumination hardly
less than divine. On a sudden he is vividly cognizant of his
overwhelming spiritual worth. Dazed in the first moment of this flooding
consciousness, he is presently to be heard recalling instances of his
noble conduct under difficulty, of righteous fortitude under strain.
Especially does he find himself endowed with the antique virtues--with
courage and a rugged fidelity, a stainless purity of motive, a fond and
measureless generosity.
To this stage the libations of Potts had now brought him. He began to
refresh the crowd with comments upon his own worth, interspersed with
kindly but hurt appreciations of the great world's lack of discernment.
He besought and defied each gentleman present to recall an occasion,
however trivial, when his conduct had fallen short of the loftiest
standards. Especially were they begged to cite an instance when he had
deviated in the least degree from a line of strictest loyalty to any
friend. Big Joe Kestril was overcome at this. He broke down and wept out
upon the shoulder of Potts his hopeless inability to comply with that
outrageous request. The entire crowd became emotional, and a dozen
lighted matches were thrust forward toward an apparently incombustible
cigar with which Potts had long striven.
Recovering from these first ravages of his self-analysis, the Colonel
became just a bit critical.
"But you see, boys, a man of my attributes is hampered and kept down in
a one-horse place like this. Remarks have been passed about me here that
I should blush to repeat. I say it in confidence, but I have again and
again been made the sport of a wayward and wanton ridicule. I say,
gentlemen, I have always conducted myself as only a Potts knows how to
conduct himself--and yet I have been pestered by cheap flings at my
personal bearing. Is this courtesy, is it common fairness, is it the
boasted civilization of our nineteenth century?"
[Illustration: "AND YET I HAVE BEEN PESTERED BY CHEAP FLINGS AT MY
PERSONAL BEARING."]
Hoarse expressions of incredulity, of execration, of disgust, came from
the crowd as it raised glasses once more. The Colonel glared down the
sloppy length of the bar, then gazed aloft into the smoky heights. The
crowd waited for him to say something.
"This is a beautiful day, gentlemen. A fine, balmy spring day. Let us be
out and away to mossy dells. Why stay in this low drinking-place when
all Nature beckons? Come on back to Hoffmuller's. Besides,"--he cast a
reproachful look at the bar-tender,--"the hospitality of this place is
not what an upright citizen of this great republic has a right to expect
when he's throwing his good money right and left."
He marched out in hurt dignity, followed by his train, many of whom, in
loyalty to their host, sneered openly at the bar-tender as they passed.
Outside the Colonel poised himself in gala attitude, and benignantly
surveyed our quiet little Main Street in both directions. Across the way
in the door of the First National Bank stood Asa Bundy, a look of
interest on his face.
The Colonel's sweeping glance halted upon Bundy. With a glad cry he
started across to him, but Bundy, beholding the move, fled actively
inside. The Colonel reached the door of the bank and tried the knob, but
the key had been turned in the lock, and the next moment the curtains of
the door were swiftly drawn. "Bank Closed" was printed upon them in
large gold letters.
Potts stepped aside to look into the window, and the curtain of that
descended relentlessly. The bank had suddenly taken on an aspect of
Sabbath blankness. Once more the Colonel rattled the knob, then he
turned to his gathering followers.
"Gentlemen, I came here to press the hand of one of Nature's noblemen,
my tried friend, the Honorable Asa Bundy, whom we have just seen
retreating to his precincts, as I might say, with a modesty that is
rarely beautiful. But no matter." Here the Colonel mounted the top step
and glowed out upon his faithful and ever enlarging band.
"Instead, my friends, allow me to read you this splendid tribute from
Bundy, and I trust that after this I shall never hear one of you utter a
word in his disparagement."
Rapidly fluttering the packet of letters, he drew out one bearing the
imprint of the First National Bank of Little Arcady. The crowd, pressing
closer, was cheerfully animated. From down the street on both sides
anxious looks were bent upon the scene by many of our leading citizens.
"'To Whom it May Concern,'" began the Colonel, in a voice that carried
to the confines of our business centre; "'The determination of our
esteemed citizen, Colonel J. Rodney Potts, to remove from our town makes
it fitting that I record my high appreciation of his character as a man
and his unusual attainments as a lawyer. His going will be a grievous
loss to our community, atoned for only by the knowledge that he will
better himself in a field of richer opportunities. He has proved himself
to possess in full measure those qualities which go to the making of the
best American citizenship, and these, as exercised in our behalf during
his all too-short sojourn among us, entitle him to be cordially
commended as worthy of all trust in any position to which he may aspire.
Very sincerely, A. Bundy, President.'"
Again and again the crowd cheered, and there were encouraging calls for
Bundy; but the First National Bank stolidly preserved its Sabbath front.
A moment later the Colonel was leading his steadfast cohort across the
street again. Marvin Chislett had unwarily peeped from inside the door
of his mercantile establishment. There was but time to turn the key and
draw the curtains before the procession halted. Such behavior may have
perplexed Potts, but daunt him it could not. From Chislett's top step he
read Chislett's letter to the delighted throng, a letter in which Potts
was said to bear an unblemished reputation, and to be a gentleman and a
scholar, amply meriting any trust that might be reposed in him.
From Chislett's they moved on to the foot of the stairs leading to the
_Argus_ office. Potts sent Big Joe up for twenty-five copies of the
latest number, and, standing on the coal box, he gallantly distributed
these to the crowd as it filed before him, intoning from memory,
meantime, snatches of the eulogy, while the crowd flourished the papers
and gurgled noisily.
A brief plunge into the lethal flood at Skeyhan's, and they came once
more abroad, this time closing the Boston Cash Store most expeditiously.
Potts, enthroned upon a big box in front, among bolts of muslin, straw
hats, and bunches of innocent early lettuce, read the splendid tribute
of the store's proprietor to his capacity as an expert in jurisprudence
and his fitness for a seat of judicial honor. The bank and Chislett's
being still closed, the little street, except in the near vicinity of
Potts, began to sleep in a strange calm.
There were other doors to conquer, however, and Potts, at the head of
his _Argus_-waving crowd of degenerates, vanquished them all.
Up and down he wandered busily, doors closing and curtains falling
swiftly at his approach. Then would he turn majestically, and say, with
a hand raised, "My friends, a moment's silence, while I read you this
magnificent tribute from one who is unfortunately not among us."
He was so impressive with this that at last the crowd would remove hats
at each reading, to the Colonel's manifest approval. The doffed hat and
the clutched _Argus_ became the mark of his drink-bought serfs. By four
o'clock the only hospitable doorways on the street were those of the
three saloons. Our leading business men were departing from their
establishments by back doors and the secrecy of gracious alleys.
From Skeyhan's to Hoffmuller's, from Hoffmuller's to the City Hotel, the
crowd sang and shouted its irregular progress, the air being "Auld Lang
Syne."
It was about this time that the Colonel unhappily caught a glimpse of
myself through the window of the hotel. A glad light came into his eyes,
and at once he searched among the letters, crying, meanwhile: "My
brother in arms! A younger brother, but a gallant officer, none the
less--"
I knew that he sought my letter. Egress from the City Hotel may be
achieved, when desirable, by a side door, and I saw no more of Potts
that day. I believe my letter spoke of him as an able and graceful
pleader, meriting judicial honors, or something of that sort. I had
forgotten its exact words, but I did not wish to hear Potts read them.
So I fled to spend the remainder of that eventful day quietly among
rosebushes and tender, budding hyacinths, unspotted of the world,
receiving, however, occasional bulletins of the orgy from passers-by.
From these and sundry narratives gleaned the following day, I was able
to trace the later hours of this scandalous saturnalia.
By six o'clock Potts had spent all his money. By six-fifteen this fact
could no longer be concealed, and such of his following as had not
already fallen by the wayside crept, one by one, to rest. They left the
Colonel dreamily, murmurously happy in a chair at the end of the City
Hotel bar.
Here, he was discovered about six-thirty by Eustace Eubanks, who had
incautiously thought to rebuke him.
"For shame, Colonel Potts!" began Eustace, seeking to fix the uncertain
eyes with his finger of scorn. "For shame to have squandered all that
money for rum. Don't you know, sir, that a hundred and sixty thousand
men die yearly in our land from the effects of rum?"
"Hundred sixty thousand!" mused the Colonel, in polite amazement. "Well,
well, figures can't lie! What of it?"
"You have dishonestly spent that money given to you in sacred trust."
This seemed to arouse Potts, and he surveyed Eubanks with more curiosity
than delight. He arose, buttoned his coat, fixed his hat firmly upon his
head, and took up his stick and bag. He put upon Eustace a glance of
dignified urbanity, as he spoke.
"I don't know who you are, sir,--never saw you before in my life,--but I
have done what every good citizen should do. I have spent my money at
home. This is a cheap place, full of cheap men. What the town needs,
sir, is capital--capital to develop its attributes and industries. It
needs more men with the public spirit of J. Rodney, sir. I bid you good
evening! Ah, this has been indeed a _beautiful day_!"
He walked out. Those who watched him until he turned out of Main Street
into Fourth, and so toward the river, aver--marvelling duly at his
powers of resistance--that the head of Potts was erect, his gaze bent
aloft, and his gait one of perfect directness save that he stepped a
little high.
I like to think of him in that last walk. I like to bring up as nearly
as I can his intense exaltation. It _had_ been a beautiful day. And now,
as he looked aloft, walking with an automatic precision, his eyes must
have beheld glorious vistas, in which he rode a chariot of triumph at
the head of a splendid procession, while his ears rang with chaste
tributes to his worth trumpeted by outriding heralds. And the good earth
was firm beneath his tread, stretching broadly off for him to walk upon
and behold his apotheosis.
I cannot wonder that he stepped high, nor can I find it in my heart to
begrudge him his day. Cunningly had he clutched a few golden moments
from the hoard that Fate, the niggard, guards from us so jealously. To
myself I acclaimed him as one to be envied.
I have always liked to believe that the splendors of that last walk
endured to the end--that there was no uncertainty, no hesitation, above
all, no vulgar stumbling; but that the last high step, which plunged him
into the chill waters of the race, was lifted in the same exulting
serenity as the first.
I stood in my garden that evening, charmed by the wild, sweet,
gusty-gentle music of the spring night.
Northward, in the gathering dusk, came a solitary figure walking
rapidly--a slight, nervous figure, a soft hat drawn well over the face,
the skirts of its coat streaming to the breeze. As it passed me, I
recognized Solon Denney. He was gesticulating with some violence, and I
could see his expressive face work as if he uttered words to himself. I
thought it possible that he might be composing a piece for his
newspaper. Instantly there came to my mind that rather coarse paraphrase
of Westley Keyts--"A hand of mush in a glove of the _same!_"
I did not intrude upon my friend as he passed.