Solon was politely incredulous.  He pledged his word of honor as a gentleman to provide the letters,—­a laudatory, an uplifting letter, from every citizen in town whose testimony would be of weight; also a half-column of fit praise in the next issue of the Argus, twelve copies of which Potts should freely carry off with him for judicious scattering about the fortunate town in which his journey should end.

Then Potts spoke openly of the expenses of travel.  Solon, royally promising a purse of gold to take him on his way, clenched the winning of a neat and bloodless victory.

No one has ever denied that Denney must have employed a faultless, an incomparable tact, to bring J. Rodney Potts to this agreement.  By tact alone had he achieved that which open sneers, covert insult, abuse, ridicule, contumely, and forthright threats had failed to consummate, and in the first flush of the news we all felt much as Westley Keyts said he did.

“Solon Denney is some subtler than me,” said Westley, in a winning spirit of concession; “I can see that, now.  He’s the Boss of Little Arcady after this, all right, so far as I know.”

Nevertheless, there was misgiving about the letters for Potts.  Old Asa Bundy, our banker, wanted to know, somewhat peevishly, if it seemed quite honest to send Potts to another town with a satchel full of letters certifying to his rare values as a man and a citizen.  What would that town think of us two or three days later?

“This is no time to split hairs, Bundy,” said Solon; and I believe I added, “Don’t be quixotic, Mr. Bundy!”

Hereupon Westley Keyts broke in brightly.

“Why, now, they’ll see in a minute that the whole thing was meant as a joke.  They’ll see that the laugh is on them, and they’ll have a lot of fun out of it, and then send the old cuss along to another town with some more funny letters to fool the next ones.”  “That’s all very well, but it isn’t high conduct,” insisted Bundy.

Westley Keyts now achieved the nearest approach to diplomacy I have ever known of him.

“Oh, well, Asa, after all, this is a world of give and take.  ’Live and let live’ is my motto.”

“We must use common sense in these matters, you know, Bundy,” observed Solon, judicially.

And that sophistry prevailed, for we were weak unto faintness from our burden.

We gave letters setting forth that J. Rodney Potts was the ideal inhabitant of a city larger than our own.  We glowed in describing the virtues of our departing townsman; his honesty of purpose, his integrity of character, his learning in the law, his wide range of achievement, civic and military,—­all those attributes that fitted him to become a stately ornament and a tower of strength to any community larger in the least degree than our own modest town.

And there was the purse.  Fifty dollars was suggested by Eustace Eubanks, but Asa Bundy said that this would not take Potts far enough.  Eustace said that a man could travel an immense distance for fifty dollars.  Bundy retorted that an ordinary man might perhaps go far enough on that sum, but not Potts.