“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 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?” “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.”