“I know that I travels slow,” said the Chronic Loafer, “but ’hen a felly travels fast, it keeps him so busy watchin’ the horses, he sees mighty leetle o’ the country an’ gits awful jolted besides. It’s a heap sight better to go slow, stoppin’ at a stream to fish trout, or in the woods to take a bang at a coon, or at the store fer a leetle discussion--it’s a heap sight easier.” He was sitting at the end of the porch, his back against the pillar; one leg stretched along the floor, the bare foot resting on its heel and wiggling to and fro in unison with his words; the other leg hanging down and swinging backward and forward like a pendulum. The Patriarch had the end of the bench nearest him. Next sat the Miller meditatively chewing his forefinger. Then there was the Tinsmith smoking thoughtfully, and beside him, a stranger. This last person was a young man. His jaunty golf cap, fresh pink shirt, spotless duck trousers and canvas shoes marked him as a barbarian. In fact he had swooped down from the mountains to the north but a few days before on a bicycle, taken board at the Shoemaker’s, fixed a short briar pipe between his teeth and seated himself on the bench. At first he had been coldly received. The Store was suspicious. It closed its mouth and waited until it could find out something of the character of the newcomer. He volunteered no explanation, but sat and smoked. The Store grew desperate. At length it could stand the suspense no longer and nudged the stranger and inquired if he might not be a detective? The stranger laughed, said no, and busied himself with the making of smoke rings. Three days passed. Then the Store allowed maybe he might not be a drummer? No, he was not a drummer. The mystery was deepening. There were two things he was not. Now the Store smoked and smoked, and watched the mountains many days, until it had drawn an inspiration therefrom. It winked at the young man and guessed he had run away from his wife. But the stranger answered that he had never married. Knowing that he was not a detective, a drummer, or a fugitive from some domestic hearthstone, the Store felt that it had learned something of his history and could afford to melt just a little. So now it was talking before him. As the Loafer finished speaking, the stranger drew forth a leather case, carefully tucked his pipe away in it and returned it to his pocket. Then he remarked calmly, “I cannot agree with you. What would the world be to-day if all men held such ideas as you?” The Patriarch, the Miller and the Tinsmith pricked up their ears and gazed at the speaker. At last the truth would be out. The Loafer saw his opportunity. “What do you do fer a livin’?” he asked. “I’m a college man,” was the bland reply. Drawing his pendulum leg up on the porch, the Loafer clasped both knees in his arms. “Well,” he drawled, “I ’low ef you is a kawledge man, they ain’t nawthin’ young enough to be a kawledge boy, is they?”