“And supposing,” said the Tinker, eyeing the piece of bacon thoughtfully, “supposing nobody ever reads it?”

“The worse for them!” said I.

Thus we talked of books, and the making of books (something of which I have already set down in another place) until our meal was at an end.

“You are a rather strange young man, I think,” said the Tinker, as, having duly wiped knife, and fork, and plate upon a handful of grass, I handed them back.

“Yet you are a stranger tinker.”

“How so?”

“Why, who ever heard of a tinker who wrote verses, and worked with a copy of Epictetus at his elbow?”

“Which I don’t deny as I’m a great thinker,” nodded the Tinker; “to be sure, I think a powerful lot.”

“A dangerous habit,” said I, shaking my head, “and a most unwise one!”

“Eh?” cried the Tinker, staring.

“Your serious, thinking man,” I explained, “is seldom happy—­as a rule has few friends, being generally regarded askance, and is always misunderstood by his fellows.  All the world’s great thinkers, from Christ down, were generally misunderstood, looked at askance, and had very few friends.”

“But these were all great men,” said the Tinker.

“We think so now, but in their day they were very much despised, and who was more hated, by the very people He sought to aid, than Christ?”

“By the evil-doers, yes,” nodded the Tinker.

“On the contrary,” said I, “his worst enemies were men of learning, good citizens, and patterns of morality, who looked upon him as a dangerous zealot, threatening the destruction of the old order of things; hence they killed him—­as an agitator.  Things are much the same to-day.  History tells us that Christ, or the spirit of Christ, has entered into many men who have striven to enlighten and better the conditions of their kind, and they have generally met with violent deaths, for Humanity is very gross and blind.”

The Tinker slowly wiped his clasp-knife upon the leg of his breeches, closed it, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Nevertheless,” said he at last, “I am convinced that you are a very strange young man.”

“Be that as it may,” said I, “the bacon was delicious.  I have never enjoyed a meal so much—­except once at an inn called ’The Old Cock.’”

“I know it,” nodded the Tinker; “a very poor house.”

“But the ham and eggs are beyond praise,” said I; “still, my meal here under the trees with you will long remain a pleasant memory.”

“Good-by, then,” said the Tinker.  “Good-by, young man, and I wish you happiness.”

“What is happiness?” said I. The Tinker removed his hat, and, having scratched his head, put it on again.

“Happiness,” said he, “happiness is the state of being content with one’s self, the world, and everything in general.”

“Then,” said I, “I fear I can never be happy.”