“Yes,” said the lady. “I knew by instinct that he was of noble birth.”
“‘I bid ye take care of the brat,’ said he,
‘For he comes of a noble race,’”
Francis hummed. He was feeling a little cross and sore. He and Mavis had had all the anxious trouble of the adventure, and now the Spangled Boy was the only one the Mermaid was nice to. It was certainly hard.
“But your stately home would not do for me at all,” she went on. “My idea of home is all seaweed of coral and pearl—so cosy and delightful and wet. Now—can you push the chariot to the water’s edge, or will you carry me?”
“Not much we won’t,” the Spangled Boy answered firmly. “We’ll push you as far as we can, and then you’ll have to wriggle.”
“I will do whatever you suggest,” she said amiably; “but what is this wriggle of which you speak?”
“Like a worm,” said Francis.
“Or an eel,” said Mavis.