"Now, how do you know it was a woman?" asked Caius.
"Well, I didn't know for certain that day anything, for she was a good way off, near the island, and she no sooner saw me than she turned and made tracks for the back of the island where I couldn't see her. But I tell you this, young sir, no woman or man either ever swam as she swam. Have you seen a trout in a quiet pool wag its tail and go right ahead—how, you didn't know; you only knew that 'twasn't in the one place and 'twas in t'other?"
Caius nodded.
"Well," asked the old man with triumph in his voice, as one who capped an argument, "did you ever see man or woman swim like that?"
"No," Caius admitted, "I never did—especially as to the wagging of the tail."
"But she hadn't a tail!" put in the old man eagerly, "for I saw her the second day—that I'm coming to. She was more like a seal or walrus."
"But what became of her the first day?" asked Caius, with scientific exactitude.
"Why, the end of her the first day was that she went behind the island. Can you see behind the island? No." The old man giggled again at his own logical way of putting things. "Well, no more could I see her; and home I went, and I said nothink to nobody, for I wasn't going to have them say I was doting."
"Yet it would be classical to dote upon a mermaid," Caius murmured. The sight of the dim-eyed, decrepit old man before him gave exquisite humour to the idea.
Morrison had already launched forth upon the story of the second day.