“My, oh, my!” muttered the old man. “It serves me right. I ought to ’a’ knowd better. ’Henever I runs down here fer a minute’s loaf, it rains; never a team comes ’long to give me a lift home, an’ I hes to paddle back in me leaky ole boots.”
He hobbled to his chair by the empty stove, about which were gathered the men of the village, despite the fact that no fire blazed within and the cold weather was far ahead.
“I hope the company ain’t displeasin’,” drawled the Chronic Loafer. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, refilled and lighted it, and sprawled out upon the counter.
“Not at all—at all. It’s the loafin’ I hate. I never could loaf jest right,” replied the Patriarch, glancing at the prostrate form.
The Loafer gave no answer save a faint “Huh!”
“Jest because a felly sets ’round the stove hain’t no sign he’s lazy, Grandpap,” said the Miller with warmth.
“Fur be it from me from sayin’ so, boys—fur be it,” said the old man. “But ez I was sayin’ a while ago, I don’t want to git inter no sech habits ez Absalom Bunkel.”
“Ab’slom Bunkel—Bunkel—Bunkel?” repeated the Tinsmith, punctuating his remark with puffs of tobacco smoke.
“Bunkel—Bunkel?” said the Storekeeper inquiringly, tapping the end of his nose with his pencil.