"And why," said the Tinker, looking at me over a piece of bacon skewered upon the point of his jack-knife, "why don't you write a book?"
"I probably shall some day," I answered.
"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."