"Look here," said I, "have you had your dinner?"
"Yes, sir," said he.
"Well, then, sit down, and have your coffee here. Touch that bell."
He sat down, and somehow this took a lot of the starch out of him.
"You were saying something," said I, "about my teaching. When did I ever teach you to keep the most vital interests of these poor people a secret from me?"
"Well," said he, balancing the sugar in his spoon over the cup, "if there was one lesson more than another that was continually dinned into my ears, it was: 'When a young man comes
into a strange parish, he must be all eyes and ears, but no tongue,' and I think you quoted some grave authorities for that aphorism."
"Was there anything wrong with the chicken?"
"Quite so," I replied. "I think it is a most wholesome advice. For there never yet was a young man that was not disposed to think that he could run a parish better than all the pastors that lived for generations there. But did you understand me to say that we were never to talk over and discuss parochial affairs?"