The Chronic Loafer arose from the bench and stepped to the edge of the porch. He rested his left hand on the pillar, thrust his right hand into his pocket and gazed searchingly at the mountains.

“What’s keepin’ you so quiet to-day?” asked the Teacher, lifting his eyes from the county paper. “One might suppose from the way you was watchin’ those mountains, you was expectin’ them to come over here so you could go fishin’.”

The Loafer turned and looked down on the pedagogue. There was pity in his eyes and disdain lurking about the corners of his mouth.

“Well, you don’t feel hurt, do you?” snapped the Teacher.

“I guess you never fished,” was the reply.

“To tell the truth I prefer more active pursuits.” The learned man said this with the air of one who was in the front rank in the great battle of life. “I prefer doin’ things to loungin’[238] along a creek tryin’ to catch a few small trout that never did me any harm.”

“I thot you’d never fished much,” said the Loafer, letting himself down on the steps and getting out his pipe. “Ef you hed you’d know that half the pleasure of it is gittin’ to the stream. You figure on how nice it’ll be ’hen you’re away from the dusty road, in the woods, lyin’ in the grass ’longside of a cool, gurglin’ pool, with the trout squabblin’ among themselves to git at your bait. You arrive there, an’ first thing you set on a rattlesnake. That makes you oneasy fer the rest o’ the day. Then you find you’ve left your bait-can at home an’ stirs up some yeller-jackets, ez you are huntin’ under rocks fer worms. You lays down your extry hooks where you can find ’em quick, an’ then ’hen you need ’em you discovers they’re in your foot. No, sir, ef I was wantin’ to go fishin’ in them mo’ntains, an’ I hed the power, I’d tell ’em to git back five mile so I’d hev furder to walk to reach the run.”

“I hain’t got nawthin’ agin your idees o’ fishin’,” said the Patriarch from his place on the bench between the Tinsmith and the G. A. R. Man, “but what you say about expectin’ is ridic’lous. You was sayin’ a bit ago that you was goin’ to hev chicken an’ waffles fer supper to-night. You’ve put in a fine day expectin’ it. But ef you goes home an’ sets down to sausage an’ zulicks, I can see things flyin’ ’round your[239] shanty most amazin’. All the joys o’ expectation ’ll be wiped outen your mind by dissypintment.”

“But you are talkin’ o’ great expectations, Gran’pap,” said the Loafer. “They result in great dissypintments. I’ve been speakin’ o’ the leetle things o’ life. Now there’s the old soldier.” He pointed to the veteran. “He was eight year expectin’ to git a pension. He talked o’ nawthin’ else. Ef he’d only git it he’d be happy. Well, he got it, an’ he lost the pleasure o’ lookin’ for’a’d to it. Is he satisfied? No. He’s jest put in wouchers claimin’ that th’ee new diseases hev cropped out on him an’ that he laid the foundations fer ’em in the Wilderness thirty year ago. He wants a raise. He’s happy agin, fer he is expectin’.”

The G. A. R. Man arose.

“I’m goin’ home,” he said, “an’ I guess I might ez well stop in at your place an’ tell your missus to never mind the chicken an’ waffles ez you’ve hed enough fun jest expectin’ ’em.”

“Well, that would be a good idee,” the Loafer drawled. “But you’d better jest yell it to her over the fence. You know she’s ben expectin’ chicken an’ waffles, too.”

The veteran dropped back to his place on the bench.

The Patriarch nudged him and said pleasantly, “Why don’t you go on?”

[240]

“I guesst I’d better wait fer the stage an’ git the news,” was the growling reply.

“You hain’t answered my first question yet,” said the Teacher to the Loafer. “You was standin’ there half an hour lookin’ at them mountains as though they was made of chicken an’ waffles. You were thinkin’ of somethin’.”

“True,” the Loafer replied. “I was thinkin’ o’ Reginal’ Deeverox an’ Lord Desmon.”

“Mighty souls!” the Patriarch cried. “Reginal’ Deeverox an’ Lord Desmon! You are the greatest man fer makin’ acquaintances I ever seen.”

“Deeverox was that new segare drummer that come th’oo here yesterday, wasn’t he?” the Tinsmith inquired.

“No,” the Loafer responded. “He was never a segare drummer ez fur ez I know. He was the real hair to the Earldom of Desmon.”

“Desmon! An’ where in all nations is Desmon?” the Patriarch exclaimed.

“Englan’,” was the calm reply.

“Then I s’pose you was fussin’ ’round Englan’ last week, ’hen we thot ye was wisitin’ your ma’s folks in Buzzard Walley,” cried the Tinsmith. “Now what air you givin’ us?”

“‘Hen I told you uns I was wisitin’ Mother’s folks, I sayd what was true.” The Loafer was undisturbed by the storm he had raised and spoke very slowly, emphasizing his words by a shake of his pipe. “You see it was this ’ay. The man I[241] was speakin’ of was called Lord Desmon, tho’ his reg’lar name was Earl o’ Desmon. His pap’s name was Lord Desmon, too, an’ so was his gran’pap’s. Before his gran’pap died, his pap’s older brother, that is the uncle o’ the man I’m referrin’ to, merried a beautiful maid who was workin’ about the placet. The old man cast him off an’ he went to South Ameriky, leavin’ a son who went be the name o’ Reginal’ Deeverox. Be rights this Deeverox should ’a’ hed the property, bein’ the hair o’ the oldest son. He didn’t know it tho’, an’ his uncle didn’t take the trouble to hunt him up ’hen the gran’pap died, but jest settled down on the farm himself.”

“What in the name o’ common sense is an earl?” asked the Miller. “What does he do?”

“Nawthin’,” the Loafer explained. “In Englan’ an earl is a descendant o’ them ez first cleared the land. He usually hes a good bit o’ property an’ farms it on the half.”

“What gits me is jest how many o’ them Lord Desmons they was,” the Tinsmith interposed.

“There was the original gran’pap—he’s one. Then there was his son that merried the maid an’ ought to ’a’ ben earl—he is two. Next there was his brother who got the property—he is th’ee. His son makes four, an’ Reginal’ Deeverox, whose right name was Lord Desmon, is five.”

“That there name Lord seemed to run in the family,” said the Miller. “I don’t wonder they[242] got mixed. Why didn’t they hev a Joe or a Jawhn?”

“Was these here some o’ your pap’s friends?” asked the Patriarch.

“I only wished he hed ’a’ knowd them,” the Loafer answered. “I don’t think he did tho’. Mebbe he was acquainted with Alice Fairfax, but I never heard him speak o’ her an’ The Home an’ Fireplace never mentioned him ez bein’ at her castel. I guessed ef Pap hed ’a’ been there he would ’a’ told me, fer he wasn’t much on keepin’ things secret.”

The Patriarch brought his stick down on the floor with a vigorous bang.

“See here,” he cried, “what has got into you anyway? Ef you knows anything about this here Lord Desmon, Reginal’ Deeverox, Alice Fairfax business, out with it, I sais. ’Hen you hears a piece o’ news ye jest set an’ smiles all over it to yourself like ez tho’ you was tormentin’ us. Ez ef we cared! Let anybody else hev a bit o’ news tho’ an’ you don’t give ’em no rest tell you’ve wormed it out of ’em—not tell you’ve wormed it all out of ’em.”

“Now see here,” was the spirited answer, “it ain’t jest that I should be accused this ’ay. The Home an’ Fireplace magazine was layin’ ’round the counter a whole week afore I even looked at it. I s’posed you’d all ben readin’ it. That’s why I thot ye might help me out.”

[243]

“Shucks! So all this here is nothin’ but somethin’ you’ve been readin’ in the paper,” the Teacher sneered.

“Exact. An’ ef you’d read the same piecet I guess you’d ben worrit, too.”

“Reginal’ Deeverox—Deeverox.” The Patriarch was thinking hard and talking to himself. “I don’t mind that piecet, an’ I read most o’ that paper,” he said, looking up. “What page was it on?”

“I don’t mind the number,” the Loafer answered, “but it begins on a page that hes a pictur o’ the house o’ Miss Annie Milliken in Tootlesbury, Massachusetts, an’ a long letter from her sayin’ how she hed been bed-rid fer thirty year tell a kind friend recommended Dr. Tarball’s Indian Wegetable Pacific.”

“Now I do recklect somethin’ about that caset,” the Tinsmith interposed. “It was a fight over a bit o’ property an’ a girl.”

“Exact,” said the Loafer.

“Well, how d’ye know it’s so?” the Miller asked. “Because it’s in the paper is no sign it’s true.”

“See here,” was the sharp reply, “do you s’pose ’hen they is so much in this world that’s true the editor o’ The Home an’ Fireplace ’ud go to the trouble o’ makin’ up lies to print? Why, it wouldn’t pay.”

The Miller was about to argue against this[244] proposition, but the Patriarch leaned over and laid a hand on his knee, checking him.

“Jest wait tell we find out who got the property,” the old man said.

“An’ the girl,” cried the Tinsmith.

“That’s jest what I’ve ben tryin’ to find out,” said the Loafer. Forthwith he plunged into the history of Reginald Devereux and Lord Desmond. “You see I found the paper on the counter yesterday ez I was waitin’ for the mail. I remember now ’most everything that was in that piecet, an’ most a mighty puzzlin’ piecet it was, too. It begin at a placet called Fairfax Castel, which was the home o’ Alice Fairfax, who the paper sayd was most tremendous good-lookin’, bein’ tall an’ willowy, with gold-colored hair an’ what it called p-a-t-r-i-c-i-a-n cast o’ features. She was twenty year old an’ hed an income o’ ten thousand pound a year.”

“Pound o’ what?” inquired the Patriarch.

“The paper didn’t tell. It jest sayd pound.”

“That’s the way with them editors,” cried the old man. “They allus forgits important points. They expects a man to know everything.”

“I guess that them must ’a’ ben pound o’ somethin’ they raised on the place,” the Tinsmith suggested.

“That’s jest the way I looked at it,” the Loafer continued. “It didn’t make no difference, anyhow, ez long ez she hed somethin’ to live on.[245] This here Lord Desmon hed a placet near hers an’ used to ride over every day regular an’ set up with her. He was tall an’ hed keen black eyes. Wherever he went he tuk with him a hound he called M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o or somethin’ like that.”

“Now ye mind that he hed no real claim on the Desmon placet an’ he knowd it. Before his pap died he hed called him to his bedside an’ sayd to him, ‘Beware of a man with an eagle tattooed on his right arm. He’s the real hair.’ So Lord re’lized that he was livin’ on a farm that belonged to the son o’ his pap’s brother. He knowd that afore his uncle died he’d sent word home that his son an’ hair could be told be the eagle. Of course the warnin’ made Lord kind o’ oneasy at first, but ez the years went by an’ he heard nawthin’ o’ his cousin he concided that the ole man hed jest ben th’owin’ a scare inter him. Meantime he’d ben doin’ wery well with Alice Fairfax, an’ things was all goin’ his way. Then a strange artist come th’oo the walley. He was paintin’——”

The Patriarch interrupted with a hilarious chuckle.

“Now, boys, look out,” he cried. “They never yit was a painter that wasn’t catchin’ with the weemen. Ye mind Bill Spiegelsole’s widdy an’ how she’d fixed it up to merry Joe Dumple? She hired a regular painter to come out from town to put a new coat on the hou............