The Boss of Little Arcady | Page 7

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