What wild hopes he had of things that should happen when they all came marching home, no one can say; even if it were not to be doubted that Crailey ever entertained hopes of any kind whatever, since to hope is to bestow thought upon the future.
But, however affairs ran with him so far as hope was concerned, he seldom lacked an idea; and one came to him presently, a notion that put the frown to rout and brought the old smile to his lips, his smile of the world-worn and tolerant prelate.

He flicked the paper lightly from him, and it sped across the room like a big bird in awkward flight.
For he knew how to preserve his last day as he wished, and to make all smooth.
He finished his toilet with particular care, took a flower from a vase on his table, placed it in his coat, and went down to the dusty street, where everything was warm and bright with summer.

It was joy to be alive; there was wine enough in the air; and Crailey made up his mind not to take a drink that day--the last day! The last day! The three words kept ringing through his head like a minor phrase from a song.
Tomorrow, at noon, they would be churning down the river; and this was the last day--the last day! "Still not too late to make another friend at home," he said, stopping to pat the head of a mangy street cur that came crouching and wobbling toward him like a staveless little keg worried by scurries of wind.

Dogs and children always fell in love with Crailey at first sight, and he never failed to receive them in the spirit of their approach.

Now the mongrel, at his touch, immediately turned himself over and lay upon the pavement with all paws in air, to say: "Great lord, magnificent in the graciousness which deigns to cast a glimpse upon this abject cluster of ribs, I perceive that your heart is too gentle to kick me in my present helplessness; yet do with me as you will." "I doubt if you've breakfasted, brother," Crailey responded aloud, rubbing the dog's head softly with the tip of his boot.