“Yes,” said the other, “before dinner; now.”
“Go ahead then,” said Matlack, putting some sticks of wood into the stove; “and tell Sadler that if he don’t send me somebody before supper-time to help about this camp, he’ll see me. I’ll be hanged,” he said to himself, as he closed the door of the stove, “if this isn’t hermitism with a vengeance. I wonder who’ll be the next one to cut and run; most likely it will be Mrs. Perkenpine.”
Early in the afternoon, warm and dusty, Martin presented himself before Peter Sadler, who was smoking his pipe on the little shaded piazza at the back of the house.
“Oh, ho!” said Peter. “How in the name of common-sense did you happen to turn up at this minute? This is about as queer a thing as I’ve known of lately. What did you come for? Sit down.”
“Mr. Sadler,” said Martin, “I have come here on most important business.”
“Lake dry?” asked Peter.
“It is a matter,” said Martin, “which concerns myself; and if all the lakes in the world were dry, I would not be able to think about them, so full is my soul of one thing.”
“By the Lord Harry,” said Peter, “let’s have it, quick!”
In a straightforward manner, but with an ardent vehemence which he could not repress, Martin stated his business with Peter Sadler. He told him how he loved Margery, what he had said to her, and what she had said to him.
“And now,” said the young man, “I have come to ask your permission to address her; but whether you give it or not I shall go to her mother and speak to her. I know her address, and I intend to do everything in an honorable way.”