WELL, now that he was started once more upon his old hobby of the
shellfish languages, there was no stopping the Doctor. He worked right
through the night.
A little after midnight I fell asleep in a chair; about two in the
morning Bumpo fell asleep at the wheel; and for five hours the _Curlew_
was allowed to drift where she liked. But still John Dolittle worked
on, trying his hardest to understand the fidgit’s language, struggling
to make the fidgit understand him.
When I woke up it was broad daylight again. The Doctor was still
standing at the listening-tank, looking as tired as an owl and
dreadfully wet. But on his face there was a proud and happy smile.
“Stubbins,” he said as soon as he saw me stir, “I’ve done it. I’ve
got the key to the fidgit’s language. It’s a frightfully difficult
language—quite different from anything I ever heard. The only thing it
reminds me of—slightly—is ancient Hebrew. It isn’t shellfish; but it’s
a big step towards it. Now, the next thing, I want you to take a pencil
and a fresh notebook and write down everything I say. The fidgit has
promised to tell me the story of his life. I will translate it into
English and you put it down in the book. Are you ready?”
Once more the Doctor lowered his ear beneath the level of the water;
and as he began to speak, I started to write. And this is the story
that the fidgit told us.