Hugh Lofting: The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle

"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."

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."