"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."