He pulls up a stool at the bar, tossing his coat over another. The man orders a warming whisky. It's on the house, for the first customer of the afternoon. Hard to tell, from mere appearances. Likely a student.
Names get confusing, and bars foster an atmosphere of anonymity.
At the Literary Saloon symbolic appellations will have to suffice. We'll call him B . Not that he's second-rate, but he's clearly looking to follow, not to lead, and intuition suggests that a more deserving and appropriate figure will claim the designation of A before too long. B has hardly sipped the double whisky before another figure slips through the doors. A man at least ten years his senior, clutching a large pile of books and papers.