“Oh—­h!” cried the Babe, almost with a sob in his voice.  He loved the blue butterflies as he loved no others of their brilliant and perishing kindred.

“Gee!” exclaimed Uncle Andy.  “But he’s a whale!”

The Babe, in his surprise at this remarkable statement, forgot to mourn for the fate of the blue butterfly.

“Why, Uncle Andy,” he protested.  “I didn’t know whales could live here in this little lake.”

Uncle Andy made a despairing gesture.  “Oh,” he murmured wearily, “a fellow has to be so careful what he says to you!  The next time I make a metaphorical remark in your presence, I’ll draw a diagram to go with it!”

The Babe looked puzzled.  He was on the point of asking what “a metaphorical” was, and also “a diagram”; but he inferred that there were no whales, after all, in Silverwater.  He had misunderstood Uncle Andy’s apparently simple statement of fact.  And he felt convicted of foolishness.  Anxious to reinstate himself in his uncle’s approval by an unexpected display of knowledge he waived “metaphorical” aside, let “diagram” remain a mystery, and remarked disinterestedly: 

“Well, I’m glad there ain’t any swordfish in Silverwater.”

“Bless the child!” cried Uncle Andy.  “Whatever has been putting swordfish into your head?”

“Bill!” replied the Babe truthfully.

“And what do you know about swordfish, then?” proceeded his uncle.

The Babe was much flattered at the unusual favor of being allowed to air his information.

“They’re awful!” he explained.  “They’re as big as a canoe.  And they’ve got a sword as long as your leg, Uncle Andy, right in their tail, so they can stab whales and porpoises with it, just carelessly, without looking round, so as to make pretend it was an accident.  And they’re quicker than greased lightning, Bill says.  So you see, if there was one here in the lake, we couldn’t ever go in swimming.”

Uncle Andy refrained from smiling.  He puffed thoughtfully at his pipe for half a minute, while the Babe waited for his verdict.  At length he said, between puffs: 

“Well, now, there’s quite a lot of truth in that, considering that it’s one of Bill’s yarns.  The swordfish does carry a sword.  And he does jab it into things, whales, sharks, boats, seals, anything whatever that he thinks might be good to eat or that he does not like the looks of.  And you are quite correct in thinking that the lake would not be a health-resort for us if it was occupied by a healthy swordfish.  But in one particular Bill has got you badly mixed up.  The swordfish carries his sword not in his tail, but on the tip of his snout more like a bayonet than a sword.  I don’t think Bill has ever been at all intimate with swordfish—­eh, what?”

The Babe shook his blonde head sadly over this instance of Bill’s inaccuracy.

“And are they as big as Bill says?” he inquired.