"Well, Nilford, what is your decision? I trust it is a favourable one
for the lad, for I am sure he would thoroughly enjoy the life; but if
not, why in case he grew 'mammy sick,' he could return home. But the lad
is of the right metal, and I'll warrant would see twelve months out
without getting weary of the life. Come now, Nilford, give me your
hand, and boy let go."

By the way, my name is Harry Nilford, which I do not think I have
mentioned before.

Then came a long verbal tug of war between these two good men, in which
I could discern that my father's refusal was solely based upon his love
for me and his apprehension for my safety. The tug of words, like a tug
of war at an athletic meeting, was a long one, first one gained an
advantage only to lose it to his opponent directly after; then the
opponent would get in a strong verbal tug, and nearly draw his man over
the line; but at length my father, with great reluctance, conceded a
point, a great point in fact, one which virtually settled the contest.

"M. Oudin," said my parent, "I'll consent on one condition, which is,
that I may be allowed to draw up an agreement as to the boy's tenancy of
the island, and if Harry agrees to abide by it, well and good."

"Very well, father," I quickly put in, "here are writing implements;
draw up your Code and I will soon tell you my decision."

This was said with great emphasis on the "_my_," and delivered with an
air of--"see what a decided person _I_ am."