Tom was once a shopmate of mine; and, though I never took him to be a very wise man, nor over bright in his upper story, yet, for all that, he was better than many. He had brought his books on purpose to talk to me about them. In a minute or two we were in the thick of them. Says he, “I have not seen you for some time; and since you and I met, I have joined the Socialists.” “Joined who?” says I. “Why,” says he, “the Socialists;” and with that he told me all about it. By his account it seemed that the world had been going round the wrong way ever since it was made, but the Socialists were going to put matters to rights again. “Just shut up your Bible,” says he, “and I will show you my books.” Now I had heard of the Socialists before, and as I had not the best opinion of them, I thought my Bible quite as good, and a pretty deal better than their books. “Tom,” says I, “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. If I shut my Bible, you are not likely to open as good a book, I have a notion; so we had better let well alone.” But Tom was very pressing; and so, putting his books on the table, he began to tell me, that the Socialists had no object in the world but the good of mankind; that everything had been for ages, and now was, all sixes and sevens; and that matters were not likely to be mended, till, burning our Bibles, and putting aside religion, and all our other fanciful notions, we became Socialists. Thinks I to myself, Great cry and little wool, Tom; but as I had never looked into any of the books of the Socialists, I picked up the one that lay at the top, and turned over a few pages, dipping here and there. I suppose the colour came into my cheeks; for Tom looked hard at me. “Tom,” says I, “if so be that I haven’t been walking on my head instead of my heels all the days of my life, and if I know black from white, why then this book of yours is an indecent and abominable book, that I should be ashamed to put into any body’s hand. Is it possible that Tom Fletcher, my old shopmate, can hold—” “Oh,” says Tom, looking as sharp as a hawk at the book in my hand, “oh,” says he, “I didn’t mean you to see that! I thought I had put that number a one side. I don’t hold exactly with it.” “Don’t hold exactly with it!” says I; “why it’s no more fit to be touched than a tarred stick. If the rest of your books are like it, a precious lot they must be altogether.” Tom looked a little queerish, as if he was ashamed of the book and of himself too. Thinks I to myself, Now’s my time to have a rap at him; for though I feel kindly to him, yet as he seems to want it, a rap on the knuckles mayhap will do him good. “And so, Tom,” says I, “this is one of the books of the Socialists, is it? One of the books that you want to recommend to me? Now tell me if you really think in your heart and conscience that that book is fit to be read by anybody?”