“Good literature here, sir,” said the stranger. “I hope you love books?” “Yes, I do,” I answered, concealing my five pounds instantly. “I write books,” he told me. “I dare say my name is familiar enough to you, if you are a reader of poetry.” I looked at him and saw that he had a long grey beard and red rims to his eyes. His clothes were black and had seen better days. He wore rather a low waistcoat which was touched here and there with grease; but his shirt was fairly white, and through his beard I saw a black tie under his chin. He was tall, and carried an umbrella and a black and rather tattered bag of leather. I seemed to feel that his black bag was heavy with great poetry. It was a solemn moment for me. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a hand at poetry, sir,” I said. “At school one had a lot to learn, and now I’m rather off it—excepting Shakespeare.” “You City men don’t know what you are missing,” he answered. “I have just come from Paternoster Row, where I have been arranging with a great publisher—one of the greatest, in fact—for my next volume of poems. Strangely enough, I saw you handle a book of mine on this bookstall only a few moments ago, and I felt drawn to you.” “Then you are Mr. Martin Tupper!” I exclaimed, “for I picked up a book of his just now—though only to see what was under it, I am afraid.” He felt disappointed at this, but admitted that I was right in my suspicion. “I am Tupper,” he confessed; “and though perhaps nobody in the world has more unknown friends, yet I allow myself no intimates. It is owing to my terribly sensitive genius. I read men like books. That is why I am talking to you at this moment. My knowledge of human nature is such that I can see at a glance—I can almost feel—whether a fellow-creature is predisposed towards me or not.” “It is a great honour to speak to you, Mr. Martin Tupper,” I answered. “But I’m afraid a man like me—just a clerk in a noisy and booming hive of industry—wouldn’t be any good to you as a friend. I don’t know much about anything—in fact, I am nobody, really; though I hope some day to be somebody.” “I felt sure of that,” he answered. “Your reply pleases me very much, young man, because it indicates that you are modest but also plucky. You recognise that you have as yet done nothing, but your heart is high and you look forward to a time when you will do everything. Had you read my _Proverbial Philosophy_, you would have discovered that—however, you must read it—to please me. You must let me send you a copy from the author.” I was, of course, greatly surprised at such unexpected kindness, but there was more to come. “When I find a young and promising man studying the books upon this stall between the hours of one and two o’clock,” said Mr. Tupper, “my custom is to ask him to join me at a modest meal—luncheon, in fact. Now do not say that you have lunched, or you will greatly disappoint me.”