well-worn black, and his clothes reek with noisome exhalations of stale
tobacco-smoke. Shall I finish his picture? I verily believe he is the
original Loafer.

Methinks I see him in my mind's eye. I am riding in a Broadway ominibus.
I have just handed up my fare, and, taking my seat, have surrendered
myself to a sweet half-hour of reverie. I disdain to spoil my eyes or
waste my time by newspaper-reading. I dream, and save my time for better
things, as I conceive.

The stage is full. "Twelve inside." The driver does not seem to get
along. He is constantly stopping or turning his horses to the sidewalk,
right or left. You wonder what is the matter. You begin to think the
whole town is striving to get a ride down with you in that particular
"'bus." At every street-corner we linger or stop. Suddenly the door is
pulled open with a jerk and our enemy leaps in. He sees the seats are
filled, but he does not hesitate. There is always room for him. Indeed,
his "spirit rises with the occasion." He becomes pertinacious as he is
offensive. He tramples upon more than one pair of feet in his struggle
to reach the middle of the omnibus. The passengers patiently submit to
the intrusion with that quiet good nature with which Americans usually
suffer imposition invasive of good manners, or petty social rights. They
seem to feel they can "stand it" if he can.

His mode of paying his fare evolves a climax of unconscious
impertinence. In order to have free use of one hand to pass up his
money, he grasps cane or umbrella with the other hand, by which he holds
the pendent strap. By this means he loses control of the lower end of
his stick, which thereby becomes an automatic instrument of torture,
menacing your face and eyes in quite a savage way. Indeed, his apparent