Then, turning to an attendant, he said:
“Summon Poly-dotto to attend before me, and bid him bring the library with him.”
I was more puzzled than ever by this command.
In a few moments the door swung open, and an aged Umi-Loba, well bent with years, with long tufts of white hair growing from his ears—for these people do not permit hair to grow upon their faces, plucking it out and destroying its roots in early life—and carrying a single volume of goodly size under his arm.
He advanced with feeble hops, steadying himself upon a staff.
His voice brought a smile to my face in spite of myself, for it whistled like a flute, unskilfully stopped, and ever and anon broke out into a funny squeak.
But although infirm of body, Poly-dotto was a perfect wonder of mind and memory.
I was fairly startled to find that Poly-dotto could understand my language with perfect ease, not a thing to startle one, either, when we stop to think that all our European tongues originated in this part of the world.
Poly-dotto hopped forward, made an attempt to bend his body more than it was, thrust the long, white tufts of hair growing from his ears into the bosom of his garb, and placed the book he had brought with him into King Gâ-roo’s hands.
His majesty returned the salutation of the aged sage, and then, bending a look upon me, beckoned to me to draw near.