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----"
Reason tottered; it revived, however, as he plunged into the s. w.[A] of
Oyster Bay and struck out, silent as a sea otter for the shimmering shape
on the ruddy rocks.
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