WE were awakened by music. The glaring noonday sunlight was streaming
in at our door, outside of which some kind of a band appeared to be
playing. We got up and looked out. Our house was surrounded by the
whole population of Popsipetel. We were used to having quite a number
of curious and admiring Indians waiting at our door at all hours;
but this was quite different. The vast crowd was dressed in its best
clothes. Bright beads, gawdy feathers and gay blankets gave cheerful
color to the scene. Every one seemed in very good humor, singing or
playing on musical instruments—mostly painted wooden whistles or drums
made from skins.
We found Polynesia—who while we slept had arrived back from
Bag-jagderag—sitting on our door-post watching the show. We asked her
what all the holiday-making was about.
“The result of the election has just been announced,” said she. “The
name of the new chief was given out at noon.”
“And who is the new chief?” asked the Doctor.
“You are,” said Polynesia quietly.
“_I!_” gasped the Doctor—“Well, of all things!”
“Yes,” said she. “You’re the one—And what’s more, they’ve changed
your surname for you. They didn’t think that Dolittle was a proper or
respectful name for a man who had done so much. So you are now to be
known as Jong Thinkalot. How do you like it?”
“But I don’t _want_ to be a chief,” said the Doctor in an irritable
voice.
“I’m afraid you’ll have hard work to get out of it now,” said
she—“unless you’re willing to put to sea again in one of their rickety
canoes. You see you’ve been elected not merely the Chief of the
Popsipetels; you’re to be a king—the King of the whole of Spidermonkey
Island. The Bag-jagderags, who were so anxious to have you govern
them, sent spies and messengers ahead of you; and when they found that
you had been elected Chief of the Popsipetels overnight they were
bitterly disappointed. However, rather than lose you altogether, the
Bag-jagderags were willing to give up their independence, and insisted
that they and their lands be united to the Popsipetels in order that
you could be made king of both. So now you’re in for it.”
“Oh Lord!” groaned the Doctor, “I do wish they wouldn’t be so
enthusiastic! Bother it, I don’t _want_ to be a king!”
“I should think, Doctor,” said I, “you’d feel rather proud and glad. I
wish _I_ had a chance to be a king.”
“Oh I know it sounds grand,” said he, pulling on his boots miserably.
“But the trouble is, you can’t take up responsibilities and then just
drop them again when you feel like it. I have my own work to do.
Scarcely one moment have I had to give to natural history since I
landed on this island. I’ve been doing some one else’s business all the
time. And now they want me to go on doing it! Why, once I’m made King
of the Popsipetels, that’s the end of me as a useful naturalist. I’d be
too busy for anything. All I’d be then is just a er—er—just a king.”
“Well, that’s something!” said Bumpo. “My father is a king and has a
hundred and twenty wives.”
“That would make it worse,” said the Doctor—“a hundred and twenty times
worse. I have my work to do. I don’t want to be a king.”
“Look,” said Polynesia, “here come the head men to announce your
election. Hurry up and get your boots laced.”
The throng before our door had suddenly parted asunder, making a long
lane; and down this we now saw a group of personages coming towards us.
The man in front, a handsome old Indian with a wrinkled face, carried
in his hands a wooden crown—a truly beautiful and gorgeous crown, even
though of wood. Wonderfully carved and painted, it had two lovely blue
feathers springing from the front of it. Behind the old man came eight
strong Indians bearing a litter, a sort of chair with long handles
underneath to carry it by.
Kneeling down on one knee, bending his head almost to the ground, the
old man addressed the Doctor who now stood in the doorway putting on
his collar and tie.
“Oh, Mighty One,” said he, “we bring you word from the Popsipetel
people. Great are your deeds beyond belief, kind is your heart and your
wisdom, deeper than the sea. Our chief is dead. The people clamor for a
worthy leader. Our old enemies, the Bag-jagderags are become, through
you, our brothers and good friends. They too desire to bask beneath the
sunshine of your smile. Behold then, I bring to you the Sacred Crown of
Popsipetel which, since ancient days when this island and its peoples
were one, beneath one monarch, has rested on no kingly brow. Oh Kindly
One, we are bidden by the united voices of the peoples of this land to
carry you to the Whispering Rocks, that there, with all respect and
majesty, you may be crowned our king—King of all the Moving Land.”
The good Indians did not seem to have even considered the possibility
of John Dolittle’s refusing. As for the poor Doctor, I never saw him so
upset by anything. It was in fact the only time I have known him to
get thoroughly fussed.
“Oh dear!” I heard him murmur, looking around wildly for some escape.
“What _shall_ I do?—Did any of you see where I laid that stud of
mine?—How on earth can I get this collar on without a stud? What a day
this is, to be sure!—Maybe it rolled under the bed, Bumpo—I do think
they might have given me a day or so to think it over in. Who ever
heard of waking a man right out of his sleep, and telling him he’s got
to be a king, before he has even washed his face? Can’t any of you find
it? Maybe you’re standing on it, Bumpo. Move your feet.”
“Oh don’t bother about your stud,” said Polynesia. “You will have to be
crowned without a collar. They won’t know the difference.”
“I tell you I’m not going to be crowned,” cried the Doctor—“not if I
can help it. I’ll make them a speech. Perhaps that will satisfy them.”
He turned back to the Indians at the door.
“My friends,” he said, “I am not worthy of this great honor you would
do me. Little or no skill have I in the arts of kingcraft. Assuredly
among your own brave men you will find many better fitted to lead you.
For this compliment, this confidence and trust, I thank you. But, I
pray you, do not think of me for such high duties which I could not
possibly fulfil.”
The old man repeated his words to the people behind him in a louder
voice. Stolidly they shook their heads, moving not an inch. The old man
turned back to the Doctor.
“You are the chosen one,” said he. “They will have none but you.”
Into the Doctor’s perplexed face suddenly there came a flash of hope.
“I’ll go and see Long Arrow,” he whispered to me. “Perhaps he will know
of some way to get me out of this.”
And asking the personages to excuse him a moment, he left them there,
standing at his door, and hurried off in the direction of Long Arrow’s
house. I followed him.
We found our big friend lying on a grass bed outside his home, where he
had been moved that he might witness the holiday-making.
“Long Arrow,” said the Doctor speaking quickly in eagle tongue so
that the bystanders should not overhear, “in dire peril I come to you
for help. These men would make me their king. If such a thing befall
me, all the great work I hoped to do must go undone, for who is there
unfreer than a king? I pray you speak with them and persuade their kind
well-meaning hearts that what they plan to do would be unwise.”
Long Arrow raised himself upon his elbow.
“Oh Kindly One,” said he (this seemed now to have become the usual
manner of address when speaking to the Doctor), “sorely it grieves me
that the first wish you ask of me I should be unable to grant. Alas! I
can do nothing. These people have so set their hearts on keeping you
for king that if I tried to interfere they would drive me from their
land and likely crown you in the end in any case. A king you must be,
if only for a while. We must so arrange the business of governing that
you may have time to give to Nature’s secrets. Later we may be able to
hit upon some plan to relieve you of the burden of the crown. But for
now you must be king. These people are a headstrong tribe and they will
have their way. There is no other course.”
Sadly the Doctor turned away from the bed and faced about. And there
behind him stood the old man again, the crown still held in his
wrinkled hands and the royal litter waiting at his elbow. With a deep
reverence the bearers motioned towards the seat of the chair, inviting
the white man to get in.
Once more the poor Doctor looked wildly, hopelessly about him for
some means of escape. For a moment I thought he was going to take to
his heels and run for it. But the crowd around us was far too thick
and densely packed for anyone to break through it. A band of whistles
and drums near by suddenly started the music of a solemn processional
march. He turned back pleadingly again to Long Arrow in a last appeal
for help. But the big Indian merely shook his head and pointed, like
the bearers, to the waiting chair.
At last, almost in tears, John Dolittle stepped slowly into the litter
and sat down. As he was hoisted on to the broad shoulders of the
bearers I heard him still feebly muttering beneath his breath,
“Botheration take it!—I don’t _want_ to be a king!”
“Farewell!” called Long Arrow from his bed, “and may good fortune ever
stand within the shadow of your throne!”
“He comes!—He comes!” murmured the crowd. “Away! Away!—To the
Whispering Rocks!”
And as the procession formed up to leave the village, the crowd about
us began hurrying off in the direction of the mountains to make sure of
good seats in the giant theatre where the crowning ceremony would take
place.
_THE TENTH CHAPTER_