"What I have here is really going to turn things around in this country," he said. "Maybe even the world." Actually, he didn't have very much to say. He just kept eating, trying not to seem famished, and all the while never letting a bulging, tattered briefcase off his lap.

It wasn't the Sunday noon dinner I had pleasantly anticipated. But there had been a knock on the front door just after noon. Though I'd long before taken down the brass plaque identifying my home as the Lutheran parsonage, I had a feeling that my grandmother was right: hobos do have charitable homes secretly marked -- especially on Main Street in a small town. Here stood a man in a crumpled blue suit, wearing a tie giving evidence of his menu over the previous several weeks. He was carrying an old suitcase and clutchin…