We found Polynesia—­who while we slept had arrived back from Bag-jagderag—­sitting on our door-post watching the show.  We asked her what all the holiday-making was about.

“The result of the election has just been announced,” said she.  “The name of the new chief was given out at noon.”

“And who is the new chief?” asked the Doctor.

“You are,” said Polynesia quietly.

“I!” gasped the Doctor—­“Well, of all things!”

“Yes,” said she.  “You’re the one—­And what’s more, they’ve changed your surname for you.  They didn’t think that Dolittle was a proper or respectful name for a man who had done so much.  So you are now to be known as Jong Thinkalot.  How do you like it?”

“But I don’t want to be a chief,” said the Doctor in an irritable voice.

“I’m afraid you’ll have hard work to get out of it now,” said she—­“unless you’re willing to put to sea again in one of their rickety canoes.  You see you’ve been elected not merely the Chief of the Popsipetels; you’re to be a king—­the King of the whole of Spidermonkey Island.  The Bag-jagderags, who were so anxious to have you govern them, sent spies and messengers ahead of you; and when they found that you had been elected Chief of the Popsipetels overnight they were bitterly disappointed.  However, rather than lose you altogether, the Bag-jagderags were willing to give up their independence, and insisted that they and their lands be united to the Popsipetels in order that you could be made king of both.  So now you’re in for it.”

“Oh Lord!” groaned the Doctor, “I do wish they wouldn’t be so enthusiastic!  Bother it, I don’t want to be a king!”

“I should think, Doctor,” said I, “you’d feel rather proud and glad.  I wish I had a chance to be a king.”

“Oh I know it sounds grand, said he, pulling 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.