eat hole in the middle of it that the midshipman in
charge guessed what it was, and bade pull up to it as fast as they
could. So somehow or other the Jack-tars got the lobster out, and set
the mayor free, and put him ashore at the Barbican. He never went
lobster-catching again; and we will hope he put no more salt in the
tobacco, not even to sell his brother's beer.

[Illustration: "A real live water-baby sitting on the white sand."--_P.
146_.]

And that is the story of the Mayor of Plymouth, which has two
advantages--first, that of being quite true; and second, that of having
(as folks say all good stories ought to have) no moral whatsoever: no
more, indeed, has any part of this book, because it is a fairy tale, you
know.

And now happened to Tom a most wonderful thing; for he had not left the
lobster five minutes before he came upon a water-baby.

A real live water-baby, sitting on the white sand, very busy about a
little point of rock. And when it saw Tom it looked up for a moment, and
then cried, "Why, you are not one of us. You are a new baby! Oh, how
delightful!"

And it ran to Tom, and Tom ran to it, and they hugged and kissed each
other for ever so long, they did not know why. But they did not want any
introductions there under the water.

At last Tom said, "Oh, where have you been all this while? I have been
looking for you so long, and I have been so lonely."

"We have been here for days and days. There are hundreds of us about the
rocks. How was it you did not see us, or hear us when we sing and romp
every evening before we go home?"

Tom looked at the baby again, and then he said:

"Well, this is wonderful! I have seen things just like you again and
again, but I thought you were shells, or sea-creatures. I never took you
for water-babies like myself."

Now, was not that very odd? So odd, indeed, that you will, no doubt,
want to know how it happened, and why Tom could never find a water-baby
till after he had got the lobster out of the pot. And, if you will read
this story nine times over, and then think for yourself, you will find
out why. It is not good for little boys to be told everything, and never
to be forced to use their own wits. They would learn, then, no more than
they do at Dr. Dulcimer's famous suburban establishment for the idler
members of the youthful aristocracy, where the masters learn the lessons
and the boys hear them--which saves a great deal of trouble--for the
time being.