rapidly--a slight, nervous figure, a soft hat drawn well over the face,
the skirts of its coat streaming to the breeze. As it passed me, I
recognized Solon Denney. He was gesticulating with some violence, and I
could see his expressive face work as if he uttered words to himself. I
thought it possible that he might be composing a piece for his
newspaper. Instantly there came to my mind that rather coarse paraphrase
of Westley Keyts--"A hand of mush in a glove of the _same!_"

I did not intrude upon my friend as he passed.




CHAPTER III


THE PERFECT LOVER

To the crime of being Potts the wretched Colonel had now added
malversation of a trust fund. But I crave surcease, while it may be
mine, from the immediately troubling waters of Potts. Let me turn more
broadly to our town and its good people for that needed recreation which
they never fail to afford me.

"Arcady of the Little Country," we often say. On maps it is Little
Arcady, county seat of Slocum County, an isle and haven in the dreary
land sea that flattens away from it on every side,--north to the big
woods, south to the swamp counties, and east and west, one might almost
say, a thousand miles to the mountains. Our point is one from which to
say either "back East" or "out West." It is neither, of itself, though