“That’s just about what I do mean, Toc,” returned Adams, with a grim smile. “Moreover, I want you to make no bungle of it. Don’t let your narves come into play. Just take a grip like a brave man, heave away wi’ the force of a windlass, an’ don’t stop for my yellin’.”
Thus adjured, Thursday October took the pincers, and gazed with a look of great anxiety into the cavernous mouth that Adams opened to his view.
“Which one is it, father, asked Toc,” rolling up his shirt sleeves to the shoulder and displaying arms worthy of Vulcan.
“Man alive! don’t you see it? The one furthest aft, with a black hole in it big enough a’most to stuff my George into.”
Thursday applied the pincers gently. Adams, unable to use clear speech in the circumstances, said chokingly, “’At’s ’e un—’ool away!” which, interpreted, is, “That’s the one—pull away.”
Toc pulled, Adams roared, the children quaked, and the pincers slipped.
“Oh, Toc, Toc!” cried Adams, with a remonstrative look, such as martyrs are said to give when their heads are not properly cut off; “is that all you can do with your big strong arms? Fie, man, fie!”
This disparaging reference to his strength put poor Thursday on his mettle.
“I’ll try again, father,” he said.
“Well, do; an’ see you make a better job of it this time.”