“And then there’s my hat,” he said fretfully at last. “That settles it: I’ll have to go back to the palace. I can’t leave without my hat. How could I appear in Puddleby with this crown on my head?”
“Here it is, Doctor,” said Bumpo producing the hat, old, battered and beloved, from under his coat.
Polynesia had indeed thought of everything.
Yet even now we could see the Doctor was still trying to think up further excuses.
“Oh Kindly One,” said Long Arrow, “why tempt ill fortune? Your way is clear. Your future and your work beckon you back to your foreign home beyond the sea. With you will go also what lore I too have gathered for mankind—to lands where it will be of wider use than it can ever here. I see the glimmerings of dawn in the eastern heaven. Day is at hand. Go before your subjects are abroad. Go before your project is discovered. For truly I believe that if you go not now you will linger the remainder of your days a captive king in Popsipetel.”
Great decisions often take no more than a moment in the making. Against the now paling sky I saw the Doctor’s figure suddenly stiffen. Slowly he lifted the Sacred Crown from off his head and laid it on the sands.
And when he spoke his voice was choked with tears.
“They will find it here,” he murmured, “when they come to search for me. And they will know that I have gone. … My children, my poor children!—I wonder will they ever understand why it was I left them. … I wonder will they ever understand—and forgive.”
He took his old hat from Bumpo; then facing Long Arrow, gripped his outstretched hand in silence.
“You decide aright, oh Kindly One,” said the Indian—“though none will miss and mourn you more than Long Arrow, the son of Golden Arrow—Farewell, and may good fortune ever lead you by the hand!”
It was the first and only time I ever saw the Doctor weep. Without a word to any of us, he turned and moved down the beach into the shallow water of the sea.
The snail humped up its back and made an opening between its shoulders and the edge of its shell. The Doctor clambered up and passed within. We followed him, after handing up the baggage. The opening shut tight with a whistling suction noise.
Then turning in the direction of the East, the great creature began moving smoothly forward, down the slope into the deeper waters.
Just as the swirling dark green surf was closing in above our heads, the big morning sun popped his rim up over the edge of the ocean. And through our transparent walls of pearl we saw the watery world about us suddenly light up with that most wondrously colorful of visions, a daybreak beneath the sea.
The rest of the story of our homeward voyage is soon told.
Our new quarters we found very satisfactory. Inside the spacious shell, the snail’s wide back was extremely comfortable to sit and lounge on—better than a sofa, when you once got accustomed to the damp and clammy feeling of it. He asked us, shortly after we started, if we wouldn’t mind taking off our boots, as the hobnails in them hurt his back as we ran excitedly from one side to another to see the different sights.
The motion was not unpleasant, very smooth and even; in fact, but for the landscape passing outside, you would not know, on the level going, that you were moving at all.
I had always thought for some reason or other that the bottom of the sea was flat. I found that it was just as irregular and changeful as the surface of the dry land. We climbed over great mountain-ranges, with peaks towering above peaks. We threaded our way through dense forests of tall sea-plants. We crossed wide empty stretches of sandy mud, like deserts—so vast that you went on for a whole day with nothing ahead of you but a dim horizon. Sometimes the scene was moss-covered, rolling country, green and restful to the eye like rich pastures; so that you almost looked to see sheep cropping on these underwater downs. And sometimes the snail would roll us forward inside him like peas, when he suddenly dipped downward to descend into some deep secluded valley with steeply sloping sides.
In these lower levels we often came upon the shadowy shapes of dead ships, wrecked and sunk Heaven only knows how many years ago; and passing them we would speak in hushed whispers like children seeing monuments in churches.
Here too, in the deeper, darker waters, monstrous fishes, feeding quietly in caves and hollows would suddenly spring up, alarmed at our approach, and flash away into the gloom with the speed of an arrow. While other bolder ones, all sorts of unearthly shapes and colors, would come right up and peer in at us through the shell.
“I suppose they think we are a sort of sanaquarium,” said Bumpo—“I’d hate to be a fish.”
It was a thrilling and ever-changing show. The Doctor wrote or sketched incessantly. Before long we had filled all the blank notebooks we had left. Then we searched our pockets for any odd scraps of paper on which to jot down still more observations. We even went through the used books a second time, writing in between the lines, scribbling all over the covers, back and front.
Our greatest difficulty was getting enough light to see by. In the lower waters it was very dim. On the third day we passed a band of fire-eels, a sort of large, marine glowworm; and the Doctor asked the snail to get them to come with us for a way. This they did, swimming alongside; and their light was very helpful, though not brilliant.
How our giant shellfish found his way across that vast and gloomy world was a great puzzle to us. John Dolittle asked him by what means he navigated—how he knew
