ling on his boots miserably.
"But the trouble is, you can't take up responsibilities and then
just drop them again when you feel like it. I have my own work to do.
Scarcely one moment have I had to give to natural history since I landed
on this island. I've been doing some one else's business all the time.
And now they want me to go on doing it! Why, once I'm made King of the
Popsipetels, that's the end of me as a useful naturalist. I'd be too
busy for anything. All I'd be then is just a er--er just a king."

"Well, that's something!" said Bumpo. "My father is a king and has a
hundred and twenty wives."

"That would make it worse," said the Doctor--"a hundred and twenty times
worse. I have my work to do. I don't want to be a king."

"Look," said Polynesia, "here come the head men to announce your
election. Hurry up and get your boots laced."

The throng before our door had suddenly parted asunder, making a long
lane; and down this we now saw a group of personages coming towards us.
The man in front, a handsome old Indian with a wrinkled face, carried
in his hands a wooden crown--a truly beautiful and gorgeous crown, even
though of wood. Wonderfully carved and painted, it had two lovely blue
feathers springing from the front of it. Behind the old man came eight
strong Indians bearing a litter, a sort of chair with long handles
underneath to carry it by.

Kneeling down on one knee, bending his head almost to the ground, the
old man addressed the Doctor who now stood in the doorway putting on his
collar and tie.

"Oh, Mighty One," said he, "we bring you word from the Popsipetel
people. Great are your deeds beyond belief, kind is your heart and your
wisdom, deeper than the sea. Our chief is dead. The people clamor for
a worthy leader. Our old enemies, the Bag-jagderags are become, through
you, our brothers and good friends. They too desire to bask beneath the
sunshine of your smile. Behold then, I bring to you the Sacred Crown of
Popsipetel which, since ancient days when this island and its peoples
were one, beneath one monarch, has rested on no kingly brow. Oh Kindly
One, we are bidden by the united voices of the peoples of this land
to carry you to the Whispering Rocks, that there, with all respect and
majesty, you may be crowned our king--King of all the Moving Land."

The good Indians did not seem to have even considered the possibility
of John Dolittle's refusing. As for the poor Doctor, I never saw him so
upse