Thus craftily are we fooled by the Lords of Destiny, whose caprice it is to affect remoteness from us and a lofty unconcern for our poor little doings.

There is bitterness in the lines of that Argus paragraph, and a flippant incivility might be read between them by the least discerning.

Arcady of the Little Country, however, knows there is neither bitterness nor real cynicism in Solon Denney, founder, editor, and proprietor of the Little Arcady Argus; motto, “Hew to the Line, Let the Chips Fall Where they May!” Indeed, we do know Solon.  Often enough has the Argus hewn inexorably to the line, when that line led straight through the heart of its guiding genius and through the hearts of us all.  One who had seen him, as I did, stand uncovered in the presence of his new Washington hand-press, the day that dynamo of Light was erected in the Argus office, could never suppose him to lack humanity or the just reverence demanded by his craft.

We may concede without disloyalty that Solon is peculiar unto himself.  In his presence you are cursed with an unquiet suspicion that he may become frivolous with you at any moment,—­may, indeed, be so at that moment, despite a due facial gravity and tones of weight,—­for he will not infrequently seem to be both trivial and serious in the same breath.  Again, he is amazingly sensitive for one not devoid of humor.  In a pleasant sense he is acutely aware of himself, and he does not dislike to know that you feel his quality.  Still again, he is bound to spice his writing.  Were it his lot to report events on the Day of Judgment, I believe the Argus account would be thought too highly colored by many persons of good taste.

But Little Arcady knows that Solon is loyal to its welfare—­knows that he is fit to wield the mightiest lever of Civilization in its behalf on Wednesday of each week.

We know now, moreover, that an undercurrent of circumstance existed which did not even ripple the surface of that apparently facetious brutality hurled at J. Rodney Potts.

The truth may not be told in a word.  But it was in this affair that Solon Denney won his title of “Boss of Little Arcady,” a title first rendered unto him somewhat in derision, I regret to say, by a number of our leading citizens, who sought, as it were, to make sport of him.

It began in a jest, as do all the choicest tragedies of the gods,—­a few lines of idle badinage, meant to spice Solon’s column of business locals with a readable sprightliness.  The thing was printed, in fact, between “Let Harpin Cust shine your face with his new razors” and “See that line of clocks at Chislett’s for sixty cents.  They look like cuckoos and keep good time.”

“Not much news this week,” the item blithely ran, “so we hereby start the rumor that ‘Upright’ Potts is going to leave town.  We would incite no community to lawless endeavor, but—­may the Colonel encounter swiftly in his new environment that warm reception to which his qualities of mind, no less than his qualities of heart, so richly entitle him,—­that reception, in short, which our own debilitated public spirit has timidly refused him.  We claim the right to start any rumor of this sort that will cheer the souls of an admiring constituency.  Now is the time to pay up that subscription.”