The Boss of Little Arcady | Page 2

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