r a shot fired. Then I run
here."

Early in the narrative Solon had begun to beam, identifying readily the
slender but important vertebrae of fact upon which Billy had organized
this drama of his fancy. At the close he shook hands warmly with our
hero.

"This has been a splendid day's work, William Durgin!" and Billy beamed
in his turn.

"I wasn't goin' to let him know we thought there was only one," he said.

"Precisely where your training showed, my boy. Any one could have handed
Potts that proof, but it took you to handle the case after the scoundrel
had said 'Which one?' Well, it's Potts's move now. If he doesn't move,
we'll just add this to the item: 'Mrs. J. Rodney Potts, wife of Colonel
J. Rodney Potts, will arrive again the following week. The ladies
anticipate an interesting time in meeting their mutual husband.' How's
that?"

Billy's eyes glistened--he was yearning for just that situation.

"But if Potts does move," added Solon, "not a word about the second
lady. We won't take a mean advantage, even of Potts."

At six o'clock that evening, the following facts became known: that
Colonel Potts had obtained a quart of whiskey from Barney Skeyhan; that
he had borrowed twenty dollars from the same trustful tradesman; that,
his cane in one hand and his oilcloth valise in the other, he had walked
down Main Street late in the afternoon and boarded the five twenty-eight
freight going West, ostensibly on a business trip into the next county.

Not until the next morning was it known that Potts had left us forever.
This came from "Big Joe" Kestril. The two had met at the depot and drunk
fraternally from the bottle of Potts, discussing the thing frankly,
meanwhile.

"They've hounded me out of town," said the Colonel.

"How?" said Big Joe.

"They sent for Mrs. Potts to come here--it's infamous, sir!"

It appeared that Potts had said further: "I can't understand the men of
this town at all. It looks as if I have been trifled with, much as I
dislike to think so. One minute they crowd letters on to me, praising me
up to the skies, and print pieces in the paper saying that nothing is
too good for me and my departure is a public loss, and why won't I
remain and be a credit to the town and a lot more like that, good and
strong. Then when I do consent to remain, why, what do they do? Do they
grasp my hand and say, 'Ah, good old Potts--stanch Potts, loyal
Potts--good for you--you won't desert the town!' Do they talk