“Them ones,” said Peter, “is entirely different from seals. You might see a seal any day in fine weather. They’re plenty. But the other ones—But sure you wouldn’t care to be hearing about them.”
“I’ve heard plenty about them,” I said, “but it was all poetry and nonsense. You know well enough, Peter, that there’s no such thing as a mermaid.”
Peter filled his pipe slowly and lit it. I could see by the way he puffed at it that he was full of pity and contempt for my scepticism.
“Come now,” I said: “did you ever see a mermaid?”
“I did not,” said Peter, “but my mother was acquainted with one. That was in Inishmore, where I was born and reared.”
I waited. The chance of getting Peter to tell an interesting story is to wait patiently. Any attempt to goad him on by asking questions is like striking before a fish is hooked. The chance of getting either story or fish is spoiled.
“There was a young fellow in the island them times,” said Peter, “called Anthony O’Flaherty. A kind of uncle of my father’s he was, and a very fine man. There wasn’t his equal at running or lepping, and they say he was terrible daring on the sea. That was before my mother was born, but she heard tell of what he did. When she knew him he was like an old man, and the heart was gone out of him.”
At this point Peter stopped. His pipe had gone out. He relit it with immense deliberation. I made a mistake. By way of keeping the conversation going I asked a question.
“Did he see a mermaid?”
“He did,” said Peter, “and what’s more he married one.”