He saw the revolver _prominent_ in the window of Stetton's, the pawnbroker in Crown Square, and the notion suddenly occurred to him that a fine old English gentleman could not be considered complete without a revolver. He bought the weapon, which Stetton guaranteed to be first-rate and fatal, and which was, in fact, pretty good. It seemed to the alderman bright, complex and heavy. He had imagined a revolver to be smaller and lighter; but then he had never handled an instrument more dangerous than a razor. He hesitated about going to his cousin's, Joe Keats, the ironmonger; Joe Keats always laughed at him as if he were a farce; Joe would not be ceremonious, and could not be corrected because he was a relative and of equal age with the alderman. But he was obliged to go to Joe Keats, as Joe made a speciality of cartridges. In Hanbridge, people who wanted cartridges went as a matter of course to Joe's. So Alderman Keats strolled with grand casualness into Joe's, and said: "I say, Joe, I want some cartridges." "What for?" the thin Joe asked. "A barker," the alderman replied, pleased with this word, and producing the revolver. "Well," said Joe, "you don't mean to say you're going about with that thing in your pocket, you?" "Why not?" "Oh! No reason why not! But you ought to be preceded by a chap with a red flag, you know, same as a steam-roller." And the alderman, ignoring this, remarked with curt haughtiness: "Every man ought to have a revolver." Then he went to his tailor and had a right-hand hip-pocket put into all his breeches. Soon afterwards, walking down Slippery Lane, near the Big Pits, notoriously a haunt of mischief, he had an encounter with a collier who was drunk enough to be insulting and sober enough to be dangerous. In relating the affair afterwards Alderman Keats said: "Fortunately I had my revolver. And I soon whipped it out, I can tell you." "And are you really never without your revolver?" he was asked. "Never!" "And it's always loaded?" "Always! What's the good of a revolver if it isn't loaded?" Thus he became known as the man who never went out without a loaded revolver in his pocket. The revolver indubitably impressed people; it seemed to match the gout. People grew to understand that evil-doers had better look out for themselves if they meant to disturb Alderman Keats, with his gout, and his revolver all ready to be whipped out. One day Brindley, the architect from Bursley, who knew more about music than revolvers, called to advise the alderman concerning some projected alterations to his stabling--alterations not necessitated by the purchase of a motor-car, for motor-cars were not old English. And somehow, while they were in the stable-yard, the revolver got into the conversation, and Brindley said: "I should like to see you hit something. You'll scarcely believe me, but I've never seen a revolver fired--not with shot in it, I mean." Alderman Keats smiled bluffly.