Bedford escaped by dashing into his store. The Colonel, suddenly
discovering that he could recite the thing from memory, did so with
considerable dramatic effect, seeming not to notice the defection of
Bedford. The crowd cheered madly when he had finished, and followed him
across the street to the bar of the City Hotel.

We could now observe better. The bar of the City Hotel is next the
office. A door is open between them with a wooden screen standing before
it. Inside the carouse raged, while we, who had thought to set Potts at
large, listened and wondered. The taller among us could overlook the
screen. We beheld Potts, one elbow resting on the bar, his other hand
with the cane in it waving forward his unreluctant train, while he
loudly inquired if there were drink to be had suitable for a gentleman
who was prepared to spend his money like a lord.

"None of that cooking whiskey, mind--nothing but the best bottled goods,
if you please!" was the next suggestion.

Again the crowd cheered. New faces were constantly appearing. The news
had gone out with an incredible rapidity. Honest men, inflamed by the
report, were leaving their works and speeding to the front from as far
north as the fair-grounds and as far south as the depot.

"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 anx