SO Doctor Dolittle with a crown on his head sat down upon the shore
like King Knut, and waited. And for a whole hour the porpoises kept
going and coming, bringing up different kinds of sea-beasts from the
deep to see if they could help him.
Many and curious were the creatures they produced. It would seem
however that there were very few things that spoke shellfish except
the shellfish themselves. Still, the porpoises grew a little more
hopeful when they discovered a very old sea-urchin (a funny, ball-like,
little fellow with long whiskers all over him) who said he could not
speak pure shellfish, but he used to understand starfish—enough to get
along—when he was young. This was coming nearer, even if it wasn’t
anything to go crazy about. Leaving the urchin with us, the porpoises
went off once more to hunt up a starfish.
They were not long getting one, for they were quite common in those
parts. Then, using the sea-urchin as an interpreter, they questioned
the starfish. He was a rather stupid sort of creature; but he tried his
best to be helpful. And after a little patient examination we found to
our delight that he could speak shellfish moderately well.
Feeling quite encouraged, the Doctor and I now got into the canoe; and,
with the porpoises, the urchin and the starfish swimming alongside, we
paddled very gently out till we were close under the towering shell of
the Great Snail.
And then began the most curious conversation I have ever witnessed.
First the starfish would ask the snail something; and whatever answer
the snail gave, the starfish would tell it to the sea-urchin, the
urchin would tell it to the porpoises and the porpoises would tell it
to the Doctor.
In this way we obtained considerable information, mostly about the very
ancient history of the Animal Kingdom; but we missed a good many of the
finer points in the snail’s longer speeches on account of the stupidity
of the starfish and all this translating from one language to another.
While the snail was speaking, the Doctor and I put our ears against the
wall of his shell and found that we could in this way hear the sound of
his voice quite plainly. It was, as the fidgit had described, deep and
bell-like. But of course we could not understand a single word he said.
However the Doctor was by this time terrifically excited about getting
near to learning the language he had sought so long. And presently by
making the other fishes repeat over and over again short phrases which
the snail used, he began to put words together for himself. You see,
he was already familiar with one or two fish languages; and that helped
him quite a little. After he had practised for a while like this he
leant over the side of the canoe and putting his face below the water,
tried speaking to the snail direct.
It was hard and difficult work; and hours went by before he got any
results. But presently I could tell by the happy look on his face that
little by little he was succeeding.
The sun was low in the West and the cool evening breeze was beginning
to rustle softly through the bamboo-groves when the Doctor finally
turned from his work and said to me,
“Stubbins, I have persuaded the snail to come in on to the dry part of
the beach and let me examine his tail. Will you please go back to the
town and tell the workmen to stop working on the theatre for to-day?
Then go on to the palace and get my medicine-bag. I think I left it
under the throne in the Audience Chamber.”
“And remember,” Polynesia whispered as I turned away, “not a word to
a soul. If you get asked questions, keep your mouth shut. Pretend you
have a toothache or something.”
This time when I got back to the shore—with the medicine-bag—I found
the snail high and dry on the beach. Seeing him in his full length like
this, it was easy to understand how old-time, superstitious sailors
had called him the Sea-serpent. He certainly was a most gigantic, and
in his way, a graceful, beautiful creature. John Dolittle was examining
a swelling on his tail.
From the bag which I had brought the Doctor took a large bottle of
embrocation and began rubbing the sprain. Next he took all the bandages
he had in the bag and fastened them end to end. But even like that,
they were not long enough to go more than halfway round the enormous
tail. The Doctor insisted that he must get the swelling strapped tight
somehow. So he sent me off to the palace once more to get all the
sheets from the Royal Linen-closet. These Polynesia and I tore into
bandages for him. And at last, after terrific exertions, we got the
sprain strapped to his satisfaction.
The snail really seemed to be quite pleased with the attention he had
received; and he stretched himself in lazy comfort when the Doctor was
done. In this position, when the shell on his back was empty, you could
look right through it and see the palm-trees on the other side.
“I think one of us had better sit up with him all night,” said the
Doctor. “We might put Bumpo on that duty; he’s been napping all day, I
know—in the summer-house. It’s a pretty bad sprain, that; and if the
snail shouldn’t be able to sleep, he’ll be happier with some one with
him for company. He’ll get all right though—in a few days I should
judge. If I wasn’t so confoundedly busy I’d sit up with him myself. I
wish I could, because I still have a lot of things to talk over with
him.”
“But Doctor,” said Polynesia as we prepared to go back to the town,
“you ought to take a holiday. All Kings take holidays once in the
while—every one of them. King Charles, for instance—of course Charles
was before your time—but he!—why, he was _always_ holiday-making. Not
that he was ever what you would call a model king. But just the same,
he was frightfully popular. Everybody liked him—even the golden-carp in
the fish-pond at Hampton Court. As a king, the only thing I had against
him was his inventing those stupid, little, snappy dogs they call King
Charles Spaniels. There are lots of stories told about poor Charles;
but that, in my opinion, is the worst thing he did. However, all this
is beside the point. As I was saying, kings have to take holidays the
same as anybody else. And you haven’t taken one since you were crowned,
have you now?”
“No,” said the Doctor, “I suppose that’s true.”
“Well now I tell you what you do,” said she: “as soon as you get back
to the palace you publish a royal proclamation that you are going away
for a week into the country for your health. And you’re going _without
any servants_, you understand—just like a plain person. It’s called
traveling incognito, when kings go off like that. They all do it—It’s
the only way they can ever have a good time. Then the week you’re away
you can spend lolling on the beach back there with the snail. How’s
that?”
“I’d like to,” said the Doctor. “It sounds most attractive. But there’s
that new theatre to be built; none of our carpenters would know how to
get those rafters on without me to show them—And then there are the
babies: these native mothers are so frightfully ignorant.”
“Oh bother the theatre—and the babies too,” snapped Polynesia. “The
theatre can wait a week. And as for babies, they never have anything
more than colic. How do you suppose babies got along before you came
here, for heaven’s sake?—Take a holiday.... You need it.”
_THE SIXTH CHAPTER_