“I didn’t say you would, sir,” said the young merman; “I said you’d better.”
“Did you ever know me say I would do a thing when I did?” returned the professor, angrily. “I mean, did you ever know me say I did do a thing when I would? Pooh! Pshaw! That isn’t what I mean.”
“Yes, sir!” said his grandson, respectfully.
“What do you mean by that?” said the professor, sharply. “There’s that catfish mewing at the door. Get up and let her in, do, and make yourself useful for once in your life.”
The young merman got up and opened the door for the catfish, which came swimming in, followed by two little kitten fish. These, frisking playfully around the room, soon overset the professor’s ink-stand.
“There!” said the professor to his grandson. “That’s all your fault! What did you let them in for? Open the windows and let in some fresh water, do. Scat! scat! you little torments! I don’t believe the cook has given them their dinner; she never does unless I see to it myself; your sisters forget them. No, I’m not going to the North Seas; I can’t spare the time.”
“Don’t you think you can, sir?” said the young merman. “What odds does it make about those forked creatures on land?”
“Do you know this fellow has the impudence to pretend that they are undeveloped mermen, that they’ll be just like ourselves after a series of ages when their two legs grow into one, and that our ancestors were actually of the same type as those low creatures that go about in ships? But perhaps you agree with him, sir?” said the old professor, with a look that seemed to say that if he did he might expect to be annihilated on the spot.
“Not I, sir. For aught I know we mermen may be undeveloped human beings. I’ve sometimes thought so, I have such a sort of longing for the land.”
“How dare you—?” began the old gentleman in great indignation.