The old man thoughtfully stroked his beard. He felt that he had met but just retribution for coming to the store to loaf. When an hour before he had awakened from a doze in his arm-chair, picked up his stick and hobbled to the village, the sky was clear and blue; not a cloud was visible anywhere, and the sun was blazing down on the fields of yellow grain that he overlooked from the porch of his little house on the hill. But the storm had been gathering its force unseen behind the neighboring mountains, piling black cloud on black cloud. And then, like an army charging on a sleeping enemy, it swept forth from its hiding-place, amid the flash of lightning and the crash of thunder, and deluged the valley. “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. “Who’s Abs’lom Bunkel?” the Loafer cried.