ted cigar viciously, and from the
corner of his trap-like mouth spoke evil of Potts in a voice that was
terrifying for its hoarseness. His own letter, among the others, told of
Potts as one who sprang to arms at his country's call and was now richly
deserving of political preferment. This had seemed to heighten the
inflammation of his utterances. Daily he consulted with Solon, warning
him that the town looked to the _Argus_ to avert this calamity of Potts.

But Solon, if he had formed any plan for relief, refused to communicate
it. Mayne and the rest of us were compelled to take what hope we could
from his confident if secretive bearing.

Meantime the _Banner_ was not reticent about "J. Rodney Potts, that
gallant old war-horse." Across the top of its front page each week stood
"POTTS FOREVER--POTTS THE COMING MAN!"

"Big Joe" Kestril was the chief henchman of Potts, and his fidelity was
like to have been fatal for him. He threw himself into the campaign with
a single-heartedness that left him few sober moments. Upon the City
Hotel corner, day after day, he buttonholed voters and whispered to them
with alcoholic fervor that Potts was a gentleman of character, "as
blotchless as the driftin' snow." Joe believed in Potts pathetically.

The campaign wore its way through the summer, and Solon Denney was
still silent, still secretive, still confident, but, alas! still
inactive so far as we could observe. I may say that we lost faith in him
as the barren weeks came and went. We came to believe that his assured
bearing was but a shield for his real despair.

Having given up hope, some of us reached a point where we could view the
whole affair as a jest. It became a popular diversion to enter the
establishment of the ever serious Westley Keyts and whisper secretively
to him that Solon Denney had found a diplomatic way to rid the town of
Potts, but this never moved Westley.

"Once bit--twice shy!" would be his response as he returned to slicing
steaks.

CHAPTER VI

A MATTER OF PERSONAL PROPERTY

In deference to the wishes of J.R.C. Tuckerman, I had formed a habit of
breakfasting in summer on the little back porch that overlooks the
river. Less radical departures from orthodox custom, it is true, have
caused adverse comment in our watchful little town; but the spot was
secluded from casual censors. And it was pleasant to sit there on a
summer morning over an omelette and bacon, coffee such as no other
Little Arca