“Polynesia,” I said, “I want to ask you something very important.”
“What is it, my boy?” said she, smoothing down the feathers of her right wing. Polynesia often spoke to me in a very patronizing way. But I did not mind it from her. After all, she was nearly two hundred years old; and I was only ten.
“Listen,” I said, “my mother doesn’t think it is right that I come here for so many meals. And I was going to ask you: supposing I did a whole lot more work for the Doctor—why couldn’t I come and live here altogether? You see, instead of being paid like a regular gardener or workman, I would get my bed and meals in exchange for the work I did. What do you think?”
“You mean you want to be a proper assistant to the Doctor, is that it?”
“Yes. I suppose that’s what you call it,” I answered. “You know you said yourself that you thought I could be very useful to him.”
“Well”—she thought a moment—“I really don’t see why not. But is this what you want to be when you grow up, a naturalist?”
“Yes,” I said, “I have made up my mind. I would sooner be a naturalist than anything else in the world.”
“Humph!—Let’s go and speak to the Doctor about it,” said Polynesia. “He’s in the next room—in the study. Open the door very gently—he may be working and not want to be disturbed.”
I opened the door quietly and peeped in. The first thing I saw was an enormous black retriever dog sitting in the middle of the hearth-rug with his ears cocked up, listening to the Doctor who was reading aloud to him from a letter.
“What is the Doctor doing?” I asked Polynesia in a whisper.