The preacher gulped down a ladleful of the pottage, and gasped for another, unmindful of his own precept, while the gravy lingered on his lips. "Such as that would soon make you another man," said Solomon, glancing at Fleetword's slender and spindle shanks; "there's nourishment in it." "We all stand in need of regeneration, Solomon, and should desire improvement, even as the hart panteth for the water-brooks; be it improvement of body, or improvement of mind. There was a wise King of Israel of thy name." "What! Grundy, sir? the Grundys were of Lancashire," said the gratified compounder of kitchen-stuff. "Not Grundy; heard ye ever in Scripture of a name like that?" retorted the preacher. "It was Solomon the wise." "I remember him now; he had a many wives. But you can call to mind, sir, when I only wanted to put away old Joan, and marry Phoebe Graceful, you, sir, wouldn't let me. But them old Christians had a deal more liberty." "Peace, fool!" exclaimed Fleetword, somewhat in anger. "Solomon was a Jew." "A Jew!" repeated the cook--"I wonder at your holy reverence to think of such wickedness; surely your reverence does not want me to be like a Jew?" "Solomon, thou art a fool--in bone, in flesh, in marrow, and in spirit. Have I not told thee of the ungodliness of these thoughts?" replied the preacher, as he finished his last morsel. "But, unless I answer thee according to thine own foolishness, I cannot make thee understand. Get me a flagon of double-dub." "With a toast in it?" demanded Grundy, slily peering out at the corner of his eye. "Thou canst comprehend _that_," replied Fleetword: "truly--truly, the creature comforts have absorbed thy whole stock of ideas. Thou art like a sponge, Solomon--a mere fungus. Thou may'st put in the toast. And hark ye! if ye see Barbara, tell her I would speak with her; not here--not here--that would be unseemly--but in the oak parlour, or the library, I care not which."