Tells of an Important Matter.  
Not very long after this, Thursday October Christian experienced at the hands of John Adams treatment which bore some slight resemblance to a species of tooth-drawing. In fact, Adams may be said to have had his revenge. It happened thus:—
 
Adams was seated, one afternoon, in front of his house on a low stool, where he was wont to sun himself and smoke an imaginary pipe, while the children were at play in the grassy square. He was absorbed, apparently, in what he used to term a brown study. Thursday October, making his appearance from among the bushes on the opposite side of the square, leaped the four-foot fence like a greyhound, without a run, and crossed over.
 
Whether it was the leap or the rate at which he had walked home through the woods, we cannot say; but his handsome face was unusually flushed, and he stopped once or twice on nearing Adams, as if undecided what to do. At last he seemed to make up his mind, walked straight up to the seaman, and stood before him with folded arms.
 
“Hallo, Toc,” said Adams, rousing himself; “you’ve caught me napping. The truth is, I’ve bin inventin’ a lot of awful whackers to spin a yarn out o’ for the child’n. This is Friday, you know, an’ as they’ve bin fastin’, poor things, I want to give ’em what you may call mental food, to keep their bread-baskets quiet, d’ye see? But you’ve got somethin’ to tell me, Toc; what is it?”
 
“Father,” said Thursday,—and then followed a long pause, during which the youth shifted from one leg to the other.
 
“Well, now, Toc,” said Adams, eyeing the lad with a twinkling expression, “d’ye know, I have heard it said or writ somewhere, that brevity is the soul of wit. If that sayin’s true, an’ I’ve no reason for to suppose that it isn’t, I should say that that observation of yours was wit without either soul or body, it’s so uncommon short; too witty, in short. Couldn’t you manage to add something more to it?”
 
“Yes, father,” said Thursday, with a deprecating smile, “I have come to ask—to ask you for leave to—to—to—”
 
“Well, Toc, you have my cheerful leave to—to—to, and tootle too, as much as you please,” replied Adams, with a bland smile.
 
“In short,” said Thursday, with a desperate air, “I—I—want leave to marry.”
 
“Whew!” whistled Adams, with a larger display of eyeball than he had made since he settled on the island. “You’ve come to the point now, and no mistake. You—want—leave—to—marry, Thursday October Christian, eh?”
 
“Yes, father, if you’ve no objection.”
 
“Hem! no objection, marry—eh?” said Adams, while his eyebrows began to return slowly to their wonted position. “Ha! well, now, let’s hear; who do you want to marry?”
 
Having fairly broken the ice, the bashful youth said quickly, “Susannah.”
 
Again John Adams uttered a prolonged whistle, while his eyebrows sprang once more to the roots of his hair.
 
“What! the widdy?”
 
“Yes, Mr Young’s widow,” replied Thursday, covered with confusion.
 
“Well, I never! But this does beat cock-fightin’.” He gave his thigh a sounding slap, and seemed about to give way to irrepressible laughter, when he suddenly checked himself and became grave.
 
“I say, Toc,” said he, earnestly, “hand me down the Prayer-book.”
 
Somewhat surprised, the lad took the book from its shelf, and placed it on the sailor’s knees.
 
“Look ’ee here, Toc; there’s somethin’ here that touches on your case, if I don’t misremember where. Let me see. Ah, here it is, ‘A man m............