"--and another thing, the farther away from this town those letters are
read,--why, the better for our reputations."

A hundred dollars it was. Purse and letters were turned over to Solon
Denney to deliver to Potts. The _Argus_ came out with its promised
eulogy, a thing so fulsome that any human being but J. Rodney Potts
would have sickened to read it of himself.

But our little town was elated. One could observe that last day a
subdued but confident gayety along its streets as citizens greeted one
another.

On every hand were good fellowship and kind words, the light-hearted
salute, the joyous mien. It was an occasion that came near to being
festal, and Solon Denney was its hero. He sought to bear his honors with
the modesty that is native to him, but in his heart he knew that we now
spoke of him glibly as the Boss of Little Arcady, and the consciousness
of it bubbled in his manner in spite of him.

When it was all over,--though I had not once raised my voice in protest,
and had frankly connived with the others,--I confess that I felt shame
for us and pity for the friendless man we were sending out into the
world. Something childlike in his acceptance of the proposal, a few
phrases of naive enthusiasm for his new prospects, repeated to me by
Solon, touched me strangely. It was, therefore, with real embarrassment
that I read the _Argus_ notice. "With profound regret," it began, "we
are obliged to announce to our readers the determination of our
distinguished fellow-townsman, Colonel J. Rodney Potts, to shake the
dust of Little Arcady from his feet. Deaf to entreaties from our leading