"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.'"