I’m glad you asked me,” said Polynesia. “I almost forgot to tell you. What do you think?—Bumpo is in England!”
“In England!—You don’t say!” cried the Doctor. “What on earth is he doing here?”
“His father, the king, sent him here to a place called—er—Bullford, I think it was—to study lessons.”
“Bullford!—Bullford!” muttered the Doctor. “I never heard of the place—Oh, you mean Oxford.”
“Yes, that’s the place—Oxford,” said Polynesia “I knew it had cattle in it somewhere. Oxford—that’s the place he’s gone to.”
“Well, well,” murmured the Doctor. “Fancy Bumpo studying at Oxford—Well, well!”
“There were great doings in Jolliginki when he left. He was scared to death to come. He was the first man from that country to go abroad. He thought he was going to be eaten by white cannibals or something. You know what those niggers are—that ignorant! Well!—But his father made him come. He said that all the black kings were sending their sons to Oxford now. It was the fashion, and he would have to go. Bumpo wanted to bring his six wives with him. But the king wouldn’t let him do that either. Poor Bumpo went off in tears—and everybody in the palace was crying too. You never heard such a hullabaloo.”
“Do you know if he ever went back in search of The Sleeping Beauty?” asked the Doctor.
“Oh yes,” said Polynesia—“the day after you left. And a good thing for him he did: the king got to know about his helping you to escape; and he was dreadfully wild about it.”
“And The Sleeping Beauty?—did he ever find her?”
“Well, he brought back something which he said was The Sleeping Beauty. Myself, I think it was an albino niggeress. She had red hair and the biggest feet you ever saw. But Bumpo was no end pleased with her and finally married her amid great rejoicings. The feastings lasted seven days. She became his chief wife and is now known out there as the Crown-Princess Bumpah—you accent the last syllable.”
“And tell me, did he remain white?”
“Only for about three months,” said the parrot. “After that his face slowly returned to its natural color. It was just as well. He was so conspicuous in his bathing-suit the way he was, with his face white and the rest of him black.”
“And how is Chee-Chee getting on?—Chee-Chee,” added the Doctor in explanation to me, “was a pet monkey I had years ago. I left him too in Africa when I came away.”
“Well,” said Polynesia frowning,—“Chee-Chee is not entirely happy. I saw a good deal of him the last few years. He got dreadfully homesick for you and the house and the garden. It’s funny, but I was just the same way myself. You remember how crazy I was to get back to the dear old land? And Africa is a wonderful country—I don’t care what anybody says. Well, I thought I was going to have a perfectly grand time. But somehow—I don’t know—after a few weeks it seemed to get tiresome. I just couldn’t seem to settle down. Well, to make a long story short, one night I made up my mind that I’d come back here and find you. So I hunted up old Chee-Chee and told him about it. He said he didn’t blame me a bit—felt exactly the same way himself. Africa was so deadly quiet after the life we had led with you. He missed the stories you used to tell us out of your animal books—and the chats we used to have sitting round the kitchen-fire on winter nights. The animals out there were very nice to us and all that. But somehow the dear kind creatures seemed a bit stupid. Chee-Chee said he had noticed it too. But I suppose it wasn’t they who had changed; it was we who were different. When I left, poor old Chee-Chee broke down and cried. He said he felt as though his only friend were leaving him—though, as you know, he has simply millions of relatives there. He said it didn’t seem fair that I should have wings to fly over here any time I liked, and him with no way to follow me. But mark my words, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he found a way to come—some day. He’s a smart lad, is Chee-Chee.”
At this point we arrived at my home. My father’s shop was closed and the shutters were up; but my mother was standing at the door looking down the street.
“Good evening, Mrs. Stubbins,” said the Doctor. “It is my fault your son is so late. I made him stay to supper while his clothes were drying. He was soaked to the skin; and so was I. We ran into one another in the storm and I insisted on his coming into my house for shelter.”
“I was beginning to get worried about him,” said my mother. “I am thankful to you, Sir, for looking after him so well and bringing him home.”
“Don’t mention it—don’t mention it,” said the Doctor. “We have had a very interesting chat.”
“Who might it be that I have the honor of addressing?” asked my mother staring at the gray parrot perched on the Doctor’s shoulder.
“Oh, I’m John Dolittle. I dare say your husband will remember me. He made me some very excellent boots about four years ago. They really are splendid,” added the Doctor, gazing down at his feet with great satisfaction.
“The Doctor has come to cure my squirrel, Mother,” said I. “He knows all about animals.”
“Oh, no,” said the Doctor, “not all, Stubbins, not all about them by any means.”
“It is very kind of you to come so far to look after his pet,” said my mother. “Tom is always bringing home strange creatures from the woods and the fields.”
“Is he?” said the Doctor. “Perhaps he will grow up to be a naturalist some day. Who knows?”
“Won’t you come in?” asked my mother. “The place is a little untidy because I haven’t finished the spring cleaning yet. But there’s a nice fire burning in the parlor.”
“Thank you!” said the Doctor. “What a charming home you have!”
And after wiping his enormous boots very, very carefully on the mat, the great man passed into the house.
THE SIXTH CHAPTER
THE WOUNDED SQUIRREL
INSIDE we found my father busy practising on the flute beside the fire. This he always did, every evening, after his work was over.
The Doctor immediately began talking to him about flutes and piccolos and bassoons; and presently my father said,
“Perhaps you perform upon the flute yourself, Sir. Won’t you play us a tune?”
“Well,” said the Doctor, “it is a long time since I touched the instrument. But I would like to try. May I?”
Then the Doctor took the flute from my father and played and played and played. It was wonderful. My mother and father sat as still as statues, staring up at the ceiling as though they were in church; and even I, who didn’t bother much about music except on the mouth-organ—even I felt all sad and cold and creepy and wished I had been a better boy.
“Oh I think that was just beautiful!” sighed my mother when at length the Doctor stopped.
“You are a great musician, Sir,” said my father, “a very great musician. Won’t you please play us something else?”
“Why certainly,” said the Doctor—“Oh,
