“Ha, ha!” the parson exploded, in his delightfully jocular way. “That’s the woman of it. Well, well, now! Yes, indeed! There speaks the good housewife. Eh, Skipper Jonathan? You’re well looked after, I’ll warrant. That’s rather good, you know, coming from you, Aunt Tibbie. Ha, ha! Why, Aunt Tibbie, he eats anything. Anything at all! You’ll want very little extra—very, very little extra. But he’ll tell you when he comes. Don’t worry about that. Just what you have for yourselves, you know. If it doesn’t agree with him, he’ll ask for what he desires.”
“Sure, sir!” said Skipper Jonathan, heartily. “Just let un ask for it.”
“Ay,” Aunt Tibbie echoed, blankly; “just let un ask for it. Sure, he can speak for hisself.”
“Of course!” cried the parson, jovially. “Why, to be sure! That’s the hospitality for me! Nothing formal about that. That’s just what makes us Newfoundlanders famous for hospitality. That’s what I like. ‘Just let un ask.’”
The clock struck. Skipper Jonathan turned patiently to the dial. He must be at sea by dawn. The gale, still blowing high, promised heavy labor at the oars. He was depressed by the roar and patter of the night. There came, then, an angry gust of rain—out of harmony with the parson’s jovial spirit: sweeping in from the black sea where Jonathan must toil at dawn.
“Ay,” he sighed, indifferently.
Aunt Tibbie gave him an anxious glance.
“Yes, indeed! Ha, ha!” the parson laughed. “Let me see, now,” he rattled. “To-morrow. Yes, yes; to-morrow is Tuesday. Well, now, let me see; yes—mm-m-m, of course, that’s right—you will have the privilege of entertaining Brother All for four days. I wish it was more. I wish for your sake,” he repeated, honestly, being unaware of the true situation in this case, “that it could be more. But it can’t. I assure you, it can’t. He must get the mail-boat north. Pity,” he continued, “the brethren can’t linger. These district meetings are so helpful, so inspiring, so refreshing. Yes, indeed! And then the social aspect—the relaxation, the flow of soul! We parsons are busy men—cooped up in a study, you know; delving in books. Our brains get tired. Yes, indeed! They need rest.” Parson Jaunt was quite sincere. Do not misunderstand him. ’Twould be unkind, even, to laugh at him. He was not clever; that is all. “Brain labor, Skipper Jonathan,” he concluded, with an odd touch of pomposity, “is hard labor.”
“Ay,” said Skipper Jonathan, sympathetically; “you parsons haves wonderful hard lines. I Wouldn’t like t’ be one. No, sir; not me!”
In this—in the opinion and feeling—Skipper Jonathan was sincere. He most properly loved Parson Jaunt, and was sorry for him, and he must not be laughed at.