“But look here!” said his friend, coming after him. “I must tell you something. I’m going to be married to your youngest sister, and I want you to come and be best man. The girls are breaking their hearts about you.”
“Oh, I dare say,” said the merman with a sneer. He had always been a most affectionate brother, but now he had no room in his heart for anything but his wooden image.
“And there’s a dear little girl next door that will be glad to see you. She’s to be bridesmaid, of course. It’s my belief she likes you. The sweetest mermaid in the sea, she is, except your sister.”
“She’s well enough for a mermaid,” said the merman, impatiently, for the ship was going farther and farther away.
“I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said his friend, growing vexed at last. “I shall really think that absurd story of Moby Dick’s was true when he said you were in love with a wooden statue of a human being.”
“She’s not human,” snapped the merman, coloring scarlet; “she’s a nymph, an immortal.”
“Let’s have a look at her,” he said.
“You are not worthy to behold her perfections,” said the merman.
“Why, a catfish may look at a congressman,” said his friend, quoting a sea proverb. “Is she on board that ship off there? Come on;” and away he went and our merman after him. They came up with the ship, and there, as usual, stood the wooden image staring over the water.
“She’s watching for me,” said the merman.