"That's right," said Westley Keyts. "Let's be diplomatic with him."

"How would _you_ begin, Westley, if you don't mind telling us?" Solon
had already begun to shape a scheme of his own.

"Why," answered Westley, looking very earnest, "just go up to him in a
quiet, refined manner--no blustering, understand--and say in a low tone,
kind of off-hand but serious, 'Now, look a' here, Potts, old boy, let's
talk this thing over like a couple of gentlemen had ought to.' 'Well,
all right,' says Potts, 'that's fair--I couldn't refuse _that_ as from
one gentleman to another gentleman.' Well, then, say to him, 'Now,
Potts, you know as well as any man in this town that you're an all-round
no-good--you're a human _Not_--and a darn scalawag into the bargain. So
what's the _use_? Will you go, or won't you?' Then if he'd begin to hem
and haw and try to put it off with one thing or another, why, just hint
in a roundabout way--perfectly genteel, you understand--that there'd be
doings with a kittle of tar and feathers that same night at
eight-thirty sharp, rain or shine, with a free ride right afterward to
the town line and mebbe a bit beyond, without no cushions. Up about the
Narrows would be a good place to say farewell," he concluded
thoughtfully.

We had listened patiently enough, but this was too summary. Westley
Keyts is our butcher, a good, honest, energetic, downright business man
with a square forehead and a blunt jaw and red hair that bristles with
challenges. But he seems compelled to say too nearly what he means to
render him useful in negotiations requiring any considerable finesse.

"We were speaking, Westley, of the gentle functions of diplomacy,"
remarked Solon, cuttingly. "Of course, we _could_ waylay Potts and kill