“Good-morning!” he said casually.
At this cheerful greeting, the astounded maid was near to tumbling after, like Jill of the song.
“Er—good-morning!” she gasped.
Silence. The merman reclined gently against the bank with a comfortable air of satisfaction. The color came flooding back to her startled face.
“Oh, are you hurt?” she cried.
A puzzled frown struggled through the mud.
“Hurt?” he echoed. “Who, me?... Why, no—leastwise, I guess not.”
He wiggled his fingers, raised his arms, wagged his head doubtfully and slowly, first sidewise and then up and down; shook himself guardedly, and finally raised tentative boot-tips to the surface. After this painstaking inspection he settled contentedly back again.
“Oh, no, I’m all right,” he reported. “Only I lost a big, black, fine, young, nice horse somehow. You ain’t seen nothing of him, have you?”
“Then why don’t you get out?” she demanded. “I believe you are hurt.”