than the
hatter who made it!"

Nearer and nearer, heard by him distinctly above the frantic splashing of
his oars, her Lorelei song sounded perilously sweet and clear.

"Oh, bunch!" he moaned; "it's horribly like the real thing; and here I
come headlong, as they do in the story books----"

He caught a crab that landed him in a graceful parabola in the bow, where
he lay biting at the air to recover his breath. Then his boat's nose
plowed into the sandy neck of land; he clambered to his feet, jumped out,
and ran headlong into the belt of trees which screened the singer. Speed
and gait recalled the effortless grace of the kangaroo; when he
encountered logs and gullies he rose grandly, sailing into space, landing
with a series of soft bounces, which presently brought him to the other
side of the woods.

And there, what he beheld, what he heard, almost paralyzed him. Weak-
kneed, he passed a trembling hand over his incredulous eyes; with the
courage of despair, he feebly pinched himself. Then for sixty sickening
seconds he closed his eyes and pressed both hands over his ears. But when
he took his hands away and opened his terrified eyes, the exquisitely
seductive melody, wind blown from the water, thrilled him in every fiber;
his wild gaze fell upon a distant, glittering shape--white-armed, golden-
haired, fish-tailed, slender body glittering with silvery scales.

The low rippling wash of the tide across the pebbly shore was in his
ears; the salt wind was in his throat. He saw the sun flash on golden
comb and mirror, as her snowy fingers caressed the splendid masses of her
hair; her song stole sweetly seaward as the wind veered.

A terrible calm descended upon him.

"This is interesting," he said aloud.

A sickening wave of terror swept him, but he straightened up, squaring
his shoulders.

"I may as well face the fact," he said, "that I, Henry Kingsbury, of
Pebble Point, Northport, L.I., and recently in my right mind, am now,
this very moment, looking at a--a mermaid in Long Island Sound!"

He shuddered; but he was sheer pluck all through. Teeth might chatter,
knees smite together, marrow turn cold; nothing on earth or Long Island
could entirely stampede Henry Kingsbury, of Pebble Point.

His clutch on his self-control in any real crisis never slipped; his
mental steering-gear never gave way. Again his pallid lips moved in
speech:

"The--thing--to--do," he said very slowly and deliberately, "is to swim
out and