CHAPTER IX

HOW THE BOSS SAVED HIMSELF

He whom they had, with facetious intent, called “the Boss of Little Arcady” now began to wear a mien of defiance.  From being confessedly distraught, he displayed, as the days went by, a spiritual uplift that fell but little short of arrogance.  He did not permit any reason to be revealed for this marked change of demeanor.  He was confident but secretive, serene but furtive, as one who has endured gibes for the sake of one brilliant coup.

This apparently causeless change permeated even to the columns of the Argus.  It had been observed by more than one of us that these had of late suffered from the depression of their editor.  Their general tone had been negative.  Now they spoke in a lightsome tone of self-sufficiency.  They were gay, even jaunty.  It was in this very epoch that the verse was born which for many years sang blithely from the top of the first column—­sang of Denney’s public-spirited optimism as to Slocum County and the Little Country.

    Keep your eye on Slocum,
      She’s all right! 
    Her skies are clear and full of cheer,
      And all her prospects bright.

As pointing more specifically to the incubus of Potts, there was this:—­

“Lots of people are saying that we have met our Waterloo.  They forget that Waterloo was a victory as well as a defeat.  Two men met it, and the name of one was Wellington.  Look it up in your encyclopaedia.”

But the faction of Potts, it should be noted, saw no reason to be impressed by a vaunting so vague.  It had not tempered its hopefulness.

Its idol was jubilant, careless as a schoolboy, babbling but sober.  The Banner still challenged the world with its page-wide line:  “Potts Forever!  Potts the Coming Man!”

Certain hopeful souls among the opposition had taken counsel how they might cause Potts to fall by means of strong drink.  They had observed that the mill-race was still significantly uncovered.  But to all invitations, all cunning incitements to indulgence, Potts was urbanely resistant.  Conscious that a river of strong waters rippled at his feet, freely to be partaken of did he choose, it is true that his face showed lines of restraint, a serene restraint, like unto that which the great old painters limned so beautifully upon the face of the martyr.  But the martyrs of old in their ecstasy were not more resolute than Potts.  It is probable that he looked forward to a period of post-election refreshment; but pending the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November, his determination was such that it stamped his face with something akin to dignity.  Said Westley Keyts, “If it was raining whiskey, Potts wouldn’t drink as much as he could ketch on a fork!” and to this the town agreed.  For once Potts was firm.

His alpaca suit had visibly deteriorated during the campaign, and his tall hat again cried for the glossing ministry of a heated iron, but his virtue burgeoned under stress and flowered to beauty in the sight of men.  It was understood at last that the mill-race might as well be covered for any adventitious relation it could sustain to Potts drunk.