This did stagger Mary. She had heard of mermaids as signs of inns and as sea-wonders, but never of flying fish. Not so Job. He put down his pipe, and nodding his head as a token of approbation, he said—
“Ay! ay! young man. Now you’re speaking truth.”
“Well, now, you’ll swallow that, old gentleman. You’ll credit me when I say I’ve seen a critter half fish, half bird, and you won’t credit me when I say there be such beasts as mermaids, half fish, half woman. To me, one’s just as strange as t’other.”
“You never saw the mermaid yoursel,” interposed Margaret gently. But “love me, love my dog,” was Will Wilson’s motto, only his version was, “Believe me, believe Jack Harris”; and the remark was not so soothing to him as it was intended to have been.
“It’s the Exocetus; one of the Malacopterygii Abdominales,” said Job, much interested.
“Ay, there you go! you’re one o’ them folks as never knows beasts unless they’re called out o’ their names. Put ‘em in Sunday clothes, and you know ‘em, but in their work-a-day English you never know nought about ‘em. I’ve met wi’ many o’ your kidney; and if I’d ha’ known it, I’d ha’ christened poor Jack’s mermaid wi’ some grand gibberish of a name. Mermaidicus Jack Harrisensis; that’s just like their new-fangled words. D’ye believe there’s such a thing as the Mermaidicus, master?” asked Will, enjoying his own joke uncommonly, as most people do.
“Not I! tell me about the”—
“Well!” said Will, pleased at having excited the old gentleman’s faith and credit at last, “it were on this last voyage, about a day’s sail from Madeira, that one of our men”—
“Not Jack Harris, I hope,” murmured Job.
“Called me,” continued Will, not noticing the interruption, “to see the what d’ye call it—flying fish I say it is. It were twenty feet out o’ water, and it flew near on to a hundred yards. But I say, old gentleman, I ha’ gotten one dried, and if you’ll take it, why, I’ll give it you; only,” he added, in a lower tone, “I wish you’d just gie me credit for the Mermaidicus.”
I really believe, if the assuming faith in the story of the mermaid had been made the condition of receiving the flying fish, Job Legh, sincere man as he was, would have pretended belief; he was so much delighted at the idea of possessing this specimen. He won the sailor’s heart by getting up to shake both his hands in his vehement gratitude, puzzling poor old Alice, who yet smiled through her wonder; for she understood the action to indicate some kindly feeling towards her nephew.
Job wanted to prove his gratitude, and was puzzled how to do it. He feared the young man would not appreciate any of his duplicate Araneides; not even the great American Mygale, one of his most precious treasures; or else he would gladly have bestowed any duplicate on the donor of a real dried Exocetus. What could he do for him? He could ask Margaret to sing. Other folks beside her old doting grandfather thought a deal of her songs. So Margaret began some of her noble old-fashioned songs. She knew no modern music (for which her auditors might have been thankful), but she poured her rich voice out in some of the old canzonets she had lately learnt while accompanying the musical lecturer on his tour.
Mary was amused to see how the young sailor sat entranced; mouth, eyes, all open, in order to catch every breath of sound. His very lids refused to wink, as if afraid in that brief proverbial interval to lose a particle of the rich music that floated through the room. For the first time the idea crossed Mary’s mind that it was possible the plain little sensible Margaret, so prim and demure, might have power over the heart of the handsome, dashing spirited Will Wilson.
Job, too, was rapidly changing his opinion of his new guest. The flying fish went a great way, and his undisguised admiration for Margaret’s singing carried him still further.
It was amusing enough to see these two, within the hour so barely civil to each other, endeavouring now to be ultra-agreeable. Will, as soon as he had taken breath (a long, deep gasp of admiration) after Margaret’s song, sidled up to Job, and asked him in a sort of doubting tone—
“You wouldn’t like a live Manx cat, would ye, master?”
“A what?” exclaimed Job.
“I don’t know its best name,” said Will humbly. “But we call ‘em just Manx cats. They’re cats without tails.”
Now Job, in all his natural history, had never heard of such animals; so Will continued—
“Because I’m going, afore joining my ship, to see mother’s friends in the island, and would gladly bring you one, if so be you’d like to have it. They look as queer and out o’ nature as flying fish, or”—he gulped the words down that should have followed. “Especially when you see ‘em walking a roof-top, right again the sky, when a cat, as is a proper cat, is sure to stick her tail stiff out behind, like a slack-rope dancer a-balancing; but these cats having no tail, cannot stick it out, which captivates some people uncommonly. If yo’ll allow me, I’ll bring one for Miss there,” jerking his head at Margaret. Job assented with grateful curiosity, wishing much to see the tailless phenomenon.
“When are you going to sail?” asked Mary.
“I cannot justly say; our ship’s bound for America next voyage, they tell me. A messmate will let me know when her sailing-day is fixed; but I’ve got to go to th’ Isle o’ Man first. I promised uncle last time I were in England to go this next time. I may have to hoist the blue Peter any day; so, make much of me while you have me, Mary.”
Job asked him if he had been in America.
“Haven’t I! North and South both! This time we’re bound to North. Yankee-Land as we call it, where Uncle Sam lives.”
“Uncle who?” said Mary.
“Oh, it’s a way sailors have of speaking. I only mean I’m going to Boston, U.S., that’s Uncle Sam.”
Mary did not understand, so she left him and went to sit by Alice, who could not hear conversation unless expressly addressed to her. She had sat patiently silent the greater part of the night, and now greeted Mary with a quiet smile.
“Where’s yo’r father?” asked she.
