shines triumphant. The Loafer sees the last of them off the stage,
turns his back on it, and seeks the shady side of the street.

A holy calm possesses the village now; the foreign element has passed
away with shouting and waving of banners, and its natural life of
somnolency is in evidence at last. And first, as a true Loafer should,
let him respectfully greet each several village dog. Arcades ambo --
loafers likewise -- they lie there in the warm dust, each outside his
own door, ready to return the smallest courtesy. Their own lords and
masters are not given to the exchange of compliments nor to greetings
in the market-place. The dog is generally the better gentleman, and he
is aware of it; and he duly appreciates the loafer, who is not too
proud to pause a moment, change the news, and pass the time of day. He
will mark his sense of this attention by rising from his dust-divan
and accompanying his caller some steps on his way. But he will stop
short of his neighbour's dust-patch; for the morning is really too hot
for a shindy. So, by easy stages (the street is not a long one: six
dogs will see it out), the Loafer quits the village; and now the world
is before him. Shall he sit on a gate and smoke? or lie on the grass
and smoke? or smoke aimlessly and at large along the road? Such a
choice of happiness is distracting; but perhaps the last course is the
best -- as needing the least mental effort of selection. Hardly,
however, has he fairly started his first daydream when the snappish
``ting'' of a bellkin recalls him to realities. By comes the
bicyclist: dusty, sweating, a piteous thing to look upon. But the
irritation of the strepitant metal has jarred the Loafer's always
exquisite nerves: he is fain to climb a gate and make his way towards
solitude and the breezy downs.

Up here all vestiges of a sordid humanity disappear. The Loafer is