"Well, and so he does, and to blow, too,—it's just the same thing," said Polly, quickly.
"Is it just exactly the same?" asked Phronsie.
"Yes, indeed; that is, in the whale's case," answered Polly, as they ran up to Grandpapa and the rest of their party, and the knots of other passengers, all staring hard at a certain point on the sparkling waste of water.
"I thought you were never coming," said old Mr. King, moving away from the rail to tuck Polly and Phronsie in where they could get a good view. "Oh, there he is—there he is—Jasper, look!" cried Polly.
"There he is!" crowed Phronsie, now much excited. "Oh, isn't he big,
Grandpapa?"
"I should say he was," declared Mr. King. "I think I never saw a finer whale in my life, Phronsie."
"He comes up to blow," said Phronsie, softly to herself, her face pressed close to the rail, and her yellow hair floating off in the breeze; "and Polly says it doesn't hurt him, and he likes it."
"What is it, Phronsie child?" asked old Mr. King, hearing her voice.
"Grandpapa, has he got any little whales?" asked Phronsie, suddenly raising her face.
"Oh, yes, I imagine so," said old Mr. King; "that is, he ought to have,
I'm sure. Porpoises go in schools,—why shouldn't whales, pray tell?"