CHAPTER

I. How the Boss won his Title

II.  The Golden Day of Colonel Potts

III.  The Perfect Lover

IV.  Dreams and Wakings

V. A Mad Prank of the Gods

VI.  A Matter of Personal Property

VII.  “A World of Fine Fabling”

VIII.  Adventure of Billy Durgin, Sleuth

IX.  How the Boss saved Himself

X. A Lady of Powers

XI.  How Little Arcady was Uplifted

XII.  Troubled Waters are Stilled

THE BOOK OF MISS CAROLINE

XIII.  A Catastrophe in Furniture

XIV.  The Coming of Miss Caroline

XV.  Little Arcady views a Parade

XVI.  The Spectre of Scandal is Raised

XVII.  The Truth about Shakspere at Last

XVIII.  In which the Game was Played

XIX.  A Worthless Black Hound

XX.  In which Something must be Done

XXI.  Little Arcady is grievously Shaken

THE BOOK OF LITTLE MISS

XXII.  The Time of Dreams

XXIII.  The Strain of Peavey

XXIV.  The Loyalty of Jim

XXV.  The Case of Fatty Budlow

XXVI.  A Little Mystery is Solved

XXVII.  How a Truce was Troublesome

XXVIII.  The Abdication of the Boss

XXIX.  In which All Rules are Broken

XXX.  By Another Hand

ILLUSTRATIONS

“A chestin’ out his chest lahk a ole ma’ash frawg”

“And yet I have been pestered by cheap flings at my personal bearing”

“We might get him to make a barrel of it for the Sunday-school picnic”

“That will do,” I said severely.  “Remember there is a gentleman present”

The Book of COLONEL POTTS

CHAPTER I

HOW THE BOSS WON HIS TITLE

=Late last Thursday evening one Jonas Rodney Potts, better known to this community as “Upright” Potts, stumbled into the mill-race, where it had providentially been left open just north of Cady’s mill.  Everything was going along finely until two hopeless busybodies were attracted to the spot by his screams, and fished him out.  It is feared that he will recover.  We withhold the names of his rescuers, although under strong temptation to publish them broadcast.—­Little Arcady Argus of May 21st.=

Looking back to that time from a happier present, I am filled by a genuine awe of J. Rodney Potts.  Reflecting upon those benign ends which the gods chose to make him serve, I can but marvel how lightly each of us may meet and scorn a casual Potts, unrecking his gracious and predestined office in the play of Fate.

Of the present—­to me—­supreme drama of the Little Country, I can only say that the gods had selected their agent with a cunning so flawless that suspicion of his portents could not well have been aroused in one lacking discernment like unto the gods’ very own.  So trivially, so utterly, so pitiably casual, to eyes of the flesh, was this Potts of Little Arcady, from his immortal soul to the least item of his inferior raiment!