“There ain’t nothin’ to’t but singin’ and then gettin’ down on your knees, and then jumpin’ up and singin’ again,” whispered Abe. “Awful poor singin’ I calls it, too. I’d like to give ’em a good chorus now—somethin’ like ‘W’isky is the Life of Man’—just to show ’em wot real singin’ is.”
“I can’t say as I admires the parson much, neither,” answered Bill. “He looks almighty severe, he does. I’d hate to sign articles with a craft he was skipper of; he’d hang two or three to the fore yard-arm every morning, just for the fun of the thing.”
“I’m agreed on that, Bill. But look—the old boy’s goin’ up them steps.”
The minister entered the pulpit; the sermon was about to begin.
The members of the congregation settled back in their seats with looks of expectant interest (or resignation) as the reverend gentleman gave a preparatory cough. After adjusting his spectacles and calmly surveying his flock, he announced: “Brethren, my discourse this afternoon will be from the text, ‘Abraham, Abraham, what is in thy bosom?’”
The two sailors convulsively grasped the pew cushions as they exchanged glances of consternation.
“Good G—, Bill!” whispered Abe, “the parson knows I stole that duff!”
Bill sat as though petrified, and the silence in the house of worship was such that you could have heard a pin drop.
After giving the congregation a few seconds to digest his words, the pastor brushed a troublesome fly from his nose, and repeated more slowly and impressively, “Abraham, Abraham, what is in thy bosom?”
This was too much for Abe, who jumped to his feet exclaiming: “You know I’ve got it, parson, so, d— you, take it!”