As pointing more specifically to the incubus of Potts, there was this:—
"Lots of people are saying that we have met our Waterloo. They forget that Waterloo was a victory as well as a defeat. Two men met it, and the name of one was Wellington. Look it up in your encyclopædia."
But the faction of Potts, it should be noted, saw no reason to be impressed by a vaunting so vague. It had not tempered its hopefulness.
Its idol was jubilant, careless as a schoolboy, babbling but sober. The Banner still challenged the world with its page-wide line: "Potts Forever! Potts the Coming Man!"
Certain hopeful souls among the opposition had taken counsel how they might cause Potts to fall by means of strong drink. They had observed that the mill-race was still significantly uncovered. But to all invitations, all cunning incitements to indulgence, Potts was urbanely resistant. Conscious that a river of strong waters rippled at his feet, freely to be partaken of did he choose, it is true that his face showed lines of restraint, a serene restraint, like unto that which the great old painters limned so beautifully upon the face of the martyr. 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.
