this night, as always, the cloth bulged with his muscles, while the coat between the shoulders, what of the heavy shoulder-development, was a maze of wrinkles.  His neck was the neck of a prize-fighter,* thick and strong.  So this was the social philosopher and ex-horseshoer my father had discovered, was my thought.  And he certainly looked it with those bulging muscles and that bull-throat.  Immediately I classified him—­a sort of prodigy, I thought, a Blind Tom** of the working class.

* In that day it was the custom of men to compete for purses of money.  They fought with their hands.  When one was beaten into insensibility or killed, the survivor took the money.

     ** This obscure reference applies to a blind negro musician
     who took the world by storm in the latter half of the
     nineteenth century of the Christian Era.

And then, when he shook hands with me!  His handshake was firm and strong, but he looked at me boldly with his black eyes—­too boldly, I thought.  You see, I was a creature of environment, and at that time had strong class instincts.  Such boldness on the part of a man of my own class would have been almost unforgivable.  I know that I could not avoid dropping my eyes, and I was quite relieved when I passed him on and turned to greet Bishop Morehouse—­a favorite of mine, a sweet and serious man of middle age, Christ-like in appearance and goodness, and a scholar as well.

But this boldness that I took to be presumption was a vital clew to the nature of Ernest Everhard.  He was simple, direct, afraid of nothing, and he refused to waste time on conventional mannerisms.  “You pleased me,” he explained long afterward; “and why should I not fill my eyes with that which pleases me?” I have said that he was afraid of nothing.  He was a natural aristocrat—­and this in spite of the fact that he was in the camp of the non-aristocrats.  He was a superman, a blond beast such as Nietzsche* has described, and in addition he was aflame with democracy.

* Friederich Nietzsche, the mad philosopher of the nineteenth century of the Christian Era, who caught wild glimpses of truth, but who, before he was done, reasoned himself around the great circle of human thought and off into madness.

In the interest of meeting the other guests, and what of my unfavorable impression, I forgot all about the working-class philosopher, though once or twice at table I noticed him—­especially the twinkle in his eye as he listened to the talk first of one minister and then of another.  He has humor, I thought, and I almost forgave him his clothes.  But the time went by, and the dinner went by, and he never opened his mouth to speak, while the ministers talked interminably about the working class and its relation to the church, and what the church had done and was doing for it.  I noticed that my father was annoyed because Ernest did not talk.  Once father took advantage of a lull and asked him to say something; but Ernest shrugged his shoulders and with an “I have nothing to say” went on eating salted almonds.