But the
martyrs of old in their ecstasy were not more resolute than Potts. It is
probable that he looked forward to a period of post-election
refreshment; but pending the first Tuesday after the first Monday in
November, his determination was such that it stamped his face with
something akin to dignity. Said Westley Keyts, "If it was raining
whiskey, Potts wouldn't drink as much as he could ketch on a fork!" and
to this the town agreed. For once Potts was firm.
His alpaca suit had visibly deteriorated during the campaign, and his
tall hat again cried for the glossing ministry of a heated iron, but his
virtue burgeoned under stress and flowered to beauty in the sight of
men. It was understood at last that the mill-race might as well be
covered for any adventitious relation it could sustain to Potts drunk.
Westley Keyts's suggestion that Potts be weighted with pig-iron and
dumped into the healing waters, drunk or sober, was the mere playfulness
of an excellent butcher unpractised in sarcasm. His offer to supply,
free of cost, a quantity of pig-iron ample for the purpose left this
hypothesis unavoidable, for Westley winked flagrantly and leered when he
voiced it.
But a retribution subtler than mere drowning awaited the superfluous
Potts; a retribution so simple of mechanism, so swift, so potent, and
wrought with a talent so masterly, that the right of its instigator to
the title of Boss of Little Arcady seemed to be unassailable for all
future time.
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