The Boss of Little Arcady | Page 8

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