"Soon," said Potts, after the first drink, "ah, too soon, I shall be
miles away from your thriving little hamlet,--as pretty a spot, by the
way, as God ever made,--seeing none but strange faces, longing for the
old hearty hand-clasps, seeking, perhaps, in vain, for one kindly look
which--which is now to be observed on every hand. But, friends, Colonel
J. Rodney will not forget you. I have rare prospects, but no matter. To
this little spot, the fairest in all Nature,--here among your simple,
heartfelt faces, where I first got my start,--here my feelings will ever
and anon return; for--why should I conceal it?--it is you, my friends,
who have made me the man I am."
Here Potts put an arm over the shoulder of Big Joe and urged pleadingly:
"Another verse of that sweet old song, boys. I tell you that has the
true heart-stuff in it--now--"
They roared out a verse of "Auld Lang Syne," with execrable attempts at
part-singing, little Dan Lefferts, a dissolute house-painter,
contributing a tenor that was simply maniacal.
Potts ordered more drinks. This done, he leaned heavily upon the bar and
burst into tears. The varlets crowded about him with tender, soothing
words, while we in the other room anxiously watched them and the clock.
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