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first-rate and fatal, and which was, in fact, pretty good. It seemed to
the alderman bright, complex and heavy. He had imagined a revolver to be
smaller and lighter; but then he had never handled an instrument more
dangerous than a razor. He hesitated about going to his cousin's, Joe
Keats, the ironmonger; Joe Keats always laughed at him as if he were a
farce; Joe would not be ceremonious, and could not be corrected because
he was a relative and of equal age with the alderman. But he was obliged
to go to Joe Keats, as Joe made a speciality of cartridges. In
Hanbridge, people who wanted cartridges went as a matter of course to
Joe's. So Alderman Keats strolled with grand casualness into Joe's, and
said:

"I say, Joe, I want some cartridges."

"What for?" the thin Joe asked.

"A barker," the alderman replied, pleased with this word, and producing
the revolver.

"Well," said Joe, "you don't mean to say you're going about with that
thing in your pocket, you?"

"Why not?"

"Oh! No reason why not! But you ought to be preceded by a chap with a
red flag, you know, same as a steam-roller."

And the alderman, ignoring this, remarked with curt haughtiness:

"Every man ought to have a revolver."

Then he went to his tailor and had a right-hand hip-pocket put into all
his breeches.

Soon afterwards, walking down Slippery Lane, near the Big Pits,
notoriously a haunt of mischief, he had an encounter with a collier who
was drunk enough to be insulting and sober enough to be dangerous. In
relating the affair afterwards Alderman Keats said:

"Fortunately I had my revolver. And I soon whipped it out, I can tell
you."

"And are you really never without your revolver?" he was asked.

"Never!"

"And it's always loaded?"

"Always! What's the good of a revolver if it isn't loaded?"

Thus he became known as the man who never went out without a loaded
revolver in his pocket. The revolver indubitably impressed people; it
seemed to match the gout. People grew to understand that evil-doers had
better look out for themselves if they meant to disturb Alderman Keats,
with his gout, and his revolver all ready to be whipped out.

One day Brindley, the architect from Bursley, who knew more about music
than revolvers, called to advise the alderman concerning some projected
alterations to his stabling--alterations not necessitated by the
purchase of a motor-car, for motor-cars were not old English. And
somehow, while they were in