“This is terrible,” he groaned.  “If I didn’t see what I think I saw, I’ll eat my hat; if I did see what I’m sure I saw, I’m madder 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—­and touch it.  If it dissolves into nothing I’ll probably feel better——­”

He began to remove coat, collar, and shoes, forcing himself to talk calmly all the while.

“The thing to do,” he went on dully, “is to swim over there and get a look at it.  Of course, it isn’t really there.  As for drowning—­it really doesn’t matter....  In the midst of life we are in Long Island....  And, if it is there—­I c-c-can c-capture it for the B-B-Bronx——­”