He had drifted casually in upon us after the war, accompanied somewhat elegantly by one John Randolph Clement Tuckerman, an ex-slave.  He came with much talk of his regiment,—­a fat-cheeked, florid man of forty-five or so, with shifty blue eyes and an address moderately insinuating.  Very tall he was, and so erect that he seemed to lean a little backward.  This physical trait, combining with a fancy for referring to himself freely as “an upright citizen of this reunited and glorious republic, sir!” had speedily made him known as “Upright” Potts.  He was of a slender build and a bony frame, except in front.  His long, single-breasted frock-coat hung loosely enough about his shoulders, yet buttoned tightly over a stomach that was so incongruous as to seem artificial.  The sleeves of the coat were glossy from much desk rubbing, and its front advertised a rather inattentive behavior at table.  The Colonel’s dress was completed by drab overgaiters and poorly draped trousers of the same once-delicate hue.  Upon his bald head, which was high and peaked, like Sir Walter Scott’s, he carried a silk hat in an inferior state of preservation.  When he began to drink it was his custom to repair at once to a barber and submit to having his side-whiskers trimmed fastidiously.  Sober, he seemed to feel little pride of person, and his whiskers at such a time merely called attention somewhat unprettily to his lack of a chin.  His other possessions were an ebony walking stick with a gold head and what he referred to in moments of expansion as his “library.”  This consisted of a copy of the Revised Statutes, a directory of Cincinnati, Ohio, for the year 1867, and two volumes of Patent Office reports.

At the time of which I speak the Colonel had long been sober, and the day that Solon Denney completed those mysterious negotiations with him he was as far from conventional standards of the beautiful as I remember to have seen him.

The guise of Solon’s subtlety, the touch of his iron hand in a glove of softest velvet, had been in this wise:  he had pointed out to the Colonel that there were richer fields of endeavor to the west of us; newer, larger towns, fitter abodes for a man of his parts; communities which had honors and emoluments to lavish upon the worthy,—­prizes which it would doubtless never be in our poor power to bestow.

Potts was stirred by all this, but he was not blinded to certain disadvantages,—­“a stranger in a strange land,” etc., while in Little Arcady he had already “made himself known.”

But, suggested Solon, with a ready wit, if the stranger were to go fortified with certificates of character from the leading citizens of his late home?

This was a thing to consider.  Potts reflected more favorably; but still he hesitated.  He was unable to believe that these certificates of his excellence might be obtained.  The bar and the commercial element of Little Arcady had been cold, not to say suspicious, toward him.  It was an unpleasant thing to mention, but a cabal had undeniably been formed.