“Come, come, grandfather,” said the young merman, smiling. “You are not angry with me I know; I presume you’ve felt just so yourself.”
The professor was silent, and swam thoughtfully two or three times up and down the room. The two little kitten fish went and sat on his head.
“I won’t say but I have,” he remarked at length, “but it’s best not to mention it. Where do you mean to go for your vacation?”
“I thought I should go North along the coast,” said the young merman. “I can’t help having a curiosity about the land, and if I am in a way to observe any human creatures, I may pick up some facts to support your theory that they are undeveloped walruses.”
“Any one can see that who has ever seen them floundering about in the water,” said the old professor, scornfully.
“But the men drown and the walruses don’t.”
“That’s because the men have not yet acquired the habit of not being drowned,” said the professor. “When are you going?”
“To-morrow, I thought.”
“Very well,” said the professor. “Swim away with you now, and tell the cook to feed these kittens; there they are nibbling the hair off my head.”
The next day the young merman set off on his travels. He bade good-bye to no one but his grandfather and his two sisters. His best friend was away as bearer of despatches to the secretary of state.