"I can, my lad, I can!" quoth he, crossing muscular hands on the handle of the thick stick he carried. "But Tonbridge is a goodish step from here and you look tired, my lad, peaked and pale about the gills. Are ye hungry?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Ha, thought so! Must eat beef—beef's the thing! d'ye like beef, hey?"
"Yes, sir!"
"How about pudding-steak and kidney pudding—d'ye like that?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Good lad! So do I! Just had some in the 'Artichoke' yonder—all hot!
Go and do likewise, my poor lad! Say Squire sent ye—and eat hearty!"
As he spoke he reached into a pocket of his smallclothes, took out a
shilling, pressed it into my hand, nodded and strode away.
CHAPTER XII
THE PRICE OF A GODDESS
Stomach is and ever has been a mighty factor in the affairs of mankind: the proud and lowly, the fool and sage, all alike are slaves to its imperious dictates. Let it go empty, and it is a curse, breeding cowardice, gloomy suspicions, unreasonableness, angers and a thousand evils and dissensions; fill it and it is a comfort, promoting good-fellowship, kindliness and abounding virtue. Hence, instead of saying of a man—"He has a good heart"—should not the dictum be rather—"He is the happy possessor of an excellent stomach regularly and adequately filled?" For truly how many actions, evil and good, may be directly traced to the influence of this most important organ! Thus, to your true Philosopher, "the Stomach is the thing," and so long as his own be comfortable he may philosophise with stoical fortitude upon other people's woes (and occasionally his own) more or less agreeably; but starve him and our Philosopher will grieve for himself as miserably as I—or even you. The Tooth of Remorse may be sharp but the Fangs of Hunger bite deeper still, and who shall cherish beauty in his soul or who find patience to rhapsodise on a sunset when his stomach is empty as a drum? Thus, alas, Soul goes shackled by, and Intellect is the slave of, Stomach!