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 encyclopaedia."
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 vertebrae 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:--
"POTTS FOREVER, BUT MAYNE FOR COUNTY JUDGE. THE TROUBLE WITH THE COMING
MAN IS THAT HE'S GONE!"