"When you've done, sir, if you please," said Jones.
"Nothing of the sort, sir! Sit down now; and I'll show you how gentlemen enjoy themselves. Under the British constitution, sir, there is no station to which you may not be called. It is highly proper, therefore, that you, and every man, should be cognizant of gentlemanly conduct. Cincinnatus, sir, followed the plough; therefore, sit down at once, like a gentleman!"
Jones didn't understand much of this, but as that which he did understand appeared to him to be very good and much to the point, he did sit down, although with evident reluctance.
"Now, sir," continued the reverend gentleman, who had resolved on enjoying the society of Jones, "consider yourself, for the time being, my equal. You are my friend, and I am yours. We are now gentlemen. What have you there, Mr. Jones?"
"What, that?"
"Yes, that!"
"That's a fowl, sir!"
"A fowl, sir! Did I not say that we were on an equality? No gentleman ever says sir, but to his servant! Do me the favour to send me a wing."
Jones had never waited at table. He, therefore, didn't know how a fowl was usually dissected. He, notwithstanding, took up a knife and fork, and, although his hands trembled with violence, he, by virtue of diligent sawing and digging, got off the wing at last, and with it half the back-bone and part of the ribs.
"Very good," said the reverend gentleman; "very good. What can I have the pleasure of helping you to? Allow me to recommend this pigeon-pie."
"If you please. Thank you: I'll take it," said Jones.
Take it! Well! The reverend gentleman sent him the pie, and as Jones thought he couldn't go very far wrong, he walked into it bodily, and ate from the dish.
"A glass of wine, Mr. Jones?" said the reverend gentleman.
"Yes, sir," replied Jones; and, having turned over the mustard-pot, poured out a bumper, and handed it politely to his reverend friend.
"Pass the bottle, Mr. Jones," said the reverend gentleman. "That is your glass. I shall be happy to take wine with you."
"Thank you, sir—good health!" said Jones.
"My love to you," said the reverend gentleman.
Jones then proceeded to scrape up the mustard, which certainly didn't look tidy on the cloth; and when he had succeeded in spreading it about, he, not knowing what else on earth to do with the spoon, carefully wiped it on his apron.
"Shall I send you a glass of ale?" said the reverend gentleman, whose gravity was imperturbable, while the face of Jones was fired with confusion.
"Thank you," replied Jones, who made another mess on the cloth, for
