THAT same week we began our preparations for the voyage.
Joe, the mussel-man, had the _Curlew_ moved down the river and tied it
up along the river-wall, so it would be more handy for loading. And for
three whole days we carried provisions down to our beautiful new boat
and stowed them away.
I was surprised to find how roomy and big she was inside. There were
three little cabins, a saloon (or dining-room) and underneath all this,
a big place called the hold where the food and extra sails and other
things were kept.
I think Joe must have told everybody in the town about our coming
voyage, because there was always a regular crowd watching us when we
brought the things down to put aboard. And of course sooner or later
old Matthew Mugg was bound to turn up.
“My Goodness, Tommy,” said he, as he watched me carrying on some sacks
of flour, “but that’s a pretty boat! Where might the Doctor be going
to this voyage?”
“We’re going to Spidermonkey Island,” I said proudly.
“And be you the only one the Doctor’s taking along?”
“Well, he has spoken of wanting to take another man,” I said; “but so
far he hasn’t made up his mind.”
Matthew grunted; then squinted up at the graceful masts of the _Curlew_.
“You know, Tommy,” said he, “if it wasn’t for my rheumatism I’ve half
a mind to come with the Doctor myself. There’s something about a boat
standing ready to sail that always did make me feel venturesome and
travelish-like. What’s that stuff in the cans you’re taking on?”
“This is treacle,” I said—“twenty pounds of treacle.”
“My Goodness,” he sighed, turning away sadly. “That makes me feel more
like going with you than ever—But my rheumatism is that bad I can’t
hardly—”
I didn’t hear any more for Matthew had moved off, still mumbling, into
the crowd that stood about the wharf. The clock in Puddleby Church
struck noon and I turned back, feeling very busy and important, to the
task of loading.
But it wasn’t very long before some one else came along and
interrupted my work. This was a huge, big, burly man with a red beard
and tattoo-marks all over his arms. He wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand, spat twice on to the river-wall and said,
“Boy, where’s the skipper?”
“The _skipper_!—Who do you mean?” I asked.
“The captain—Where’s the captain of this craft?” he said, pointing to
the _Curlew_.
“Oh, you mean the Doctor,” said I. “Well, he isn’t here at present.”
At that moment the Doctor arrived with his arms full of note-books and
butterfly-nets and glass cases and other natural history things. The
big man went up to him, respectfully touching his cap.
“Good morning, Captain,” said he. “I heard you was in need of hands for
a voyage. My name’s Ben Butcher, able seaman.”
“I am very glad to know you,” said the Doctor. “But I’m afraid I shan’t
be able to take on any more crew.”
“Why, but Captain,” said the able seaman, “you surely ain’t going to
face deep-sea weather with nothing more than this bit of a lad to help
you—and with a cutter that big!”
The Doctor assured him that he was; but the man didn’t go away. He hung
around and argued. He told us he had known of many ships being sunk
through “undermanning.” He got out what he called his _stiffikit_—a
paper which said what a good sailor he was—and implored us, if we
valued our lives, to take him.
[Illustration: “‘Boy, where’s the skipper?’”]
But the Doctor was quite firm—polite but determined—and finally the man
walked sorrowfully away, telling us he never expected to see us alive
again.
Callers of one sort and another kept us quite busy that morning.
The Doctor had no sooner gone below to stow away his note-books
than another visitor appeared upon the gang-plank. This was a most
extraordinary-looking black man. The only other negroes I had seen
had been in circuses, where they wore feathers and bone necklaces and
things like that. But this one was dressed in a fashionable frock coat
with an enormous bright red cravat. On his head was a straw hat with
a gay band; and over this he held a large green umbrella. He was very
smart in every respect except his feet. He wore no shoes or socks.
“Pardon me,” said he, bowing elegantly, “but is this the ship of the
physician Dolittle?”
“Yes,” I said, “did you wish to see him?”
“I did—if it will not be discommodious,” he answered.
“Who shall I say it is?”
“I am Bumpo Kahbooboo, Crown Prince of Jolliginki.”