The Boss of Little Arcady | Page 7

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