“Well, parson,” Skipper Jonathan said, doggedly, “all you got t’ do is ask for what you wants.”
“No, no!”
“That’s all you got t’ do,” Jonathan persisted.
“Most kind of you, sir! But—no, no!”
“Please do!” Aunt Tibbie begged.
But the parson was not to be persuaded. Not Parson All of Satan’s Trap—a kindly, sensitive soul! He was very hungry, to be sure, and must go hungry to bed (it seemed); but he would not ask for what he wanted. To-morrow? Well, something had to be done. He would yield—he must yield to the flesh—a little. This he did timidly: with shame for the weakness of the flesh. He resented the peculiarity of brewis in his particular case. Indeed, he came near to rebellion against the Lord—no, not rebellion: merely rebellious questionings. But he is to be forgiven, surely; for he wished most earnestly that he might eat brewis and live—just as you and I might have done.
“Now, Parson All,” Jonathan demanded, “you just got t’ tell.”
And, well, the parson admitted that a little bread and a tin of beef—to be taken sparingly—would be a grateful diet.
“But we’ve none!” cried Aunt Tibbie. “An’ this night you’ll starve!”
“To-night,” said the parson, gently, “my stomach—is a bit out—anyhow.”