Our letters of eulogy, printed at the Banner office, were scattered among the voters, and with them went a letter from Potts saying that if his strenuous labors as an attorney in the interests of humanity, public morals, and common decency met with the voter’s approval, he would be gratified to have his good-will and assistance.  “It is such gentlemen as yourself,” read the letter, “constituting the best element of our society, to whom I must look for the endorsement of my work.  The criminal classes of this community, whose minions have so recently sought my life by mob violence, will leave no stone unturned to prevent my sitting as Judge.”

Our Democratic candidate, who had first felt but an academic interest in the campaign, began now to show elation.  Old Cuthbert Mayne, the Republican candidate, who had been certain of success but for the accident of Potts, chewed his unlighted 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