"Yea; but methinks thou mightest take away a portion, without injury to
the goodly fabric.--Behold!" and the Reverend Jonas lifted, with the
cook's long knife (which he snatched in unbecoming haste from the
girdle), the paste of the edge of the gigantic pie, and stole a weighty
slice of the venison from beneath.
"Ah, ah!" grinned Solomon, evidently pleased at the distinction bestowed
upon his compost. "Is it not passing good? But you taste not of the
gravy--the gravy!"
"It is unseemly to dispose one's heart towards such luxuries; though the
saints stand in need of food no less than the young ravens--only it
should be in moderation."
The preacher gulped down a ladleful of the pottage, and gasped for
another, unmindful of his own precept, while the gravy lingered on his
lips.
"Such as that would soon make you another man," said Solomon, glancing
at Fleetword's slender and spindle shanks; "there's nourishment in it."
"We all stand in need of regeneration, Solomon, and should desire
improvement, even as the hart panteth for the water-brooks; be it
improvement of body, or improvement of mind. There was a wise King of
Israel of thy name."
"What! Grundy, sir? the Grundys were of Lancashire," said the gratified
compounder of kitchen-stuff.
"Not Grundy; heard ye ever in Scripture of a name like that?" retorted
the preacher. "It was Solomon the wise."
"I remember him now; he had a many wives. But you can call to mind,
sir, when I only wanted to put away old Joan, and marry Phoebe Graceful,
you, sir, wouldn't let me. But them old Christians had a deal more
liberty."
"Peace, fool!" exclaimed Fleetword, somewhat in anger. "Solomon was a
Jew."
"A Jew!" repeated the cook--"I wonder at your holy reverence to think of
such wickedness; surely your reverence does not want me to be like a
Jew?"
"Solomon, thou art a fool--in bone, in flesh, in marrow, and in spirit.
Have I not told thee of the ungodliness of these thoughts?" replied the
preacher, as he finished his last morsel. "But, unless I answer thee
according to thine own foolishness, I cannot make thee understand. Get
me a flagon of double-dub."
"With a toast in it?" demanded Grundy, slily peering out at the corner
of his eye.
"Thou canst comprehend that," replied Fleetword: "truly--truly, the
creature comforts have absorbed thy whole stock of ideas. Thou art like
a sponge, Solomon--a mere fungus. Thou may'st put in the toast. And hark
ye! if ye see Barbara, tell her I would speak with her; not here--not
here--that would be unseemly--but in the oak parlour, or the library, I
care not which."