“Good gracious, Sarah!” cried the man. “I thought I saw one of the figures move, the fat one.”
The tourist adjusted his spectacles and, coming a little closer to the edge of the pond, stared very hard. But Cheapside, to add a touch of convincing realism, flew up on to the merman’s shoulder, kicked the beetle into the pond with a secret flick of his foot and burst into a flood of carefree song.
“No, Sarah,” said the man. “I was mistaken. See, there is a bird sitting on his shoulder. How romantic! Must be a nightingale.”
“Will you come home, Lancelot?” snapped the woman. “You won’t feel so romantic when your cough comes back. It must be after midnight.”
“But you know, Sarah,” said the man, as he was almost forcibly dragged away, “I don’t think he’s too fat. They had to be stout, those marine people: they floated better that way. Dear me, Paris is a beautiful city!”
As the footsteps died away down the moonlit path, John Dolittle sighed a great sigh of relief and came to life.
“Cheapside,” said he, stretching his stiff arms, “you could never guess who those people were. My sister Sarah and her husband, the Reverend Lancelot Dingle. It’s funny, Cheapside, but whenever I am in an awkward or ridiculous situation Sarah seems bound to turn up. Of course she and her husband would just have to come touring Paris at the exact hour when I was taking a bath in the Tuileries Gardens. Ah well, thank goodness the pond kept them off from getting any closer to me!”
“Well, listen, Doc,” said the London sparrow: “I think you had better be gettin’ along yourself now. It’s about time for that bobby to be coming round again.”
“Yes, you’re right,” said the Doctor. And he slid back into the water, waded to the edge and stepped out on to dry ground.
But John Dolittle’s troubles were not over yet. While he was still no more than half way to his “dressing-room” there came another warning shout from Cheapside: