FROM the way Polynesia talked, I guessed that this idea of a holiday
was part of her plan.
The Doctor made no reply; and we walked on silently towards the town. I
could see, nevertheless that her words had made an impression on him.
After supper he disappeared from the palace without saying where he was
going—a thing he had never done before. Of course we all knew where he
had gone: back to the beach to sit up with the snail. We were sure of
it because he had said nothing to Bumpo about attending to the matter.
As soon as the doors were closed upon the Cabinet Meeting that night,
Polynesia addressed the Ministry:
“Look here, you fellows,” said she: “we’ve simply got to get the Doctor
to take this holiday somehow—unless we’re willing to stay in this
blessed island for the rest of our lives.”
“But what difference,” Bumpo asked, “is his taking a holiday going to
make?”
Impatiently Polynesia turned upon the Minister of the Interior.
“Don’t you see? If he has a clear week to get thoroughly interested in
his natural history again—marine stuff, his dream of seeing the floor
of the ocean and all that—there may be some chance of his consenting
to leave this pesky place. But while he is here on duty as king he
never gets a moment to think of anything outside of the business of
government.”
“Yes, that’s true. He’s far too consententious,” Bumpo agreed.
“And besides,” Polynesia went on, “his only hope of ever getting away
from here would be to escape secretly. He’s got to leave while he is
holiday-making, incognito—when no one knows where he is or what he’s
doing, but us. If he built a ship big enough to cross the sea in, all
the Indians would see it, and hear it, being built; and they’d ask what
it was for. They would interfere. They’d sooner have anything happen
than lose the Doctor. Why, I believe if they thought he had any idea of
escaping they would put chains on him.”
“Yes, I really think they would,” I agreed. “Yet without a ship of some
kind I don’t see how the Doctor is going to get away, even secretly.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Polynesia. “If we do succeed in making
him take this holiday, our next step will be to get the sea-snail
to promise to take us all in his shell and carry us to the mouth of
Puddleby River. If we can once get the snail willing, the temptation
will be too much for John Dolittle and he’ll come, I know—especially as
he’ll be able to take those new plants and drugs of Long Arrow’s to the
English doctors, as well as see the floor of the ocean on the way.”
“How thrilling!” I cried. “Do you mean the snail could take us under
the sea all the way back to Puddleby?”
“Certainly,” said Polynesia, “a little trip like that is nothing to
him. He would crawl along the floor of the ocean and the Doctor could
see all the sights. Perfectly simple. Oh, John Dolittle will come all
right, if we can only get him to take that holiday—_and_ if the snail
will consent to give us the ride.”
“Golly, I hope he does!” sighed Jip. “I’m sick of these beastly
tropics—they make you feel so lazy and good-for-nothing. And there
are no rats or anything here—not that a fellow would have the energy
to chase ’em even if there were. My, wouldn’t I be glad to see old
Puddleby and the garden again! And won’t Dab-Dab be glad to have us
back!”
“By the end of next month,” said I, “it will be two whole years since
we left England—since we pulled up the anchor at Kingsbridge and bumped
our way out into the river.”
“And got stuck on the mud-bank,” added Chee-Chee in a dreamy, far-away
voice.
“Do you remember how all the people waved to us from the river-wall?” I
asked.
“Yes. And I suppose they’ve often talked about us in the town since,”
said Jip—“wondering whether we’re dead or alive.”
“Cease,” said Bumpo, “I feel I am about to weep from sediment.”
_THE SEVENTH CHAPTER_