We found our big friend lying on a grass bed outside his home, where he had been moved that he might witness the holiday-making.

“Long Arrow,” said the Doctor speaking quickly in eagle tongue so that the bystanders should not overhear, “in dire peril I come to you for help.  These men would make me their king.  If such a thing befall me, all the great work I hoped to do must go undone, for who is there unfreer than a king?  I pray you speak with them and persuade their kind well-meaning hearts that what they plan to do would be unwise.”

Long Arrow raised himself upon his elbow.  “Oh Kindly One,” said he (this seemed now to have become the usual manner of address when speaking to the Doctor), “sorely it grieves me that the first wish you ask of me I should be unable to grant.  Alas!  I can do nothing.  These people have so set their hearts on keeping you for king that if I tried to interfere they would drive me from their land and likely crown you in the end in any case.  A king you must be, if only for a while.  We must so arrange the business of governing that you may have time to give to Nature’s secrets.  Later we may be able to hit upon some plan to relieve you of the burden of the crown.  But for now you must be king.  These people are a headstrong tribe and they will have their way.  There is no other course.”

Sadly the Doctor turned away from the bed and faced about.  And there behind him stood the old man again, the crown still held in his wrinkled hands and the royal litter waiting at his elbow.  With a deep reverence the bearers motioned towards the seat of the chair, inviting the white man to get in.

Once more the poor Doctor looked wildly, hopelessly about him for some means of escape.  For a moment I thought he was going to take to his heels and run for it.  But the crowd around us was far too thick and densely packed for anyone to break through it.  A band of whistles and drums near by suddenly started the music of a solemn processional march.  He turned back pleadingly again to Long Arrow in a last appeal for help.  But the big Indian merely shook his head and pointed, like the bearers, to the waiting chair.

At last, almost in tears, John Dolittle stepped slowly into the litter and sat down.  As he was hoisted on to the broad shoulders of the bearers I heard him still feebly muttering beneath his breath,

“Botheration take it!—­I don’t want to be a king!”

“Farewell!” called Long Arrow from his bed, “and may good fortune ever stand within the shadow of your throne!”

“He comes!—­He comes!” murmured the crowd.  “Away!  Away!—­To the Whispering Rocks!”

And as the procession formed up to leave the village, the crowd about us began hurrying off in the direction of the mountains to make sure of good seats in the giant theatre where the crowning ceremony would take place.

THE TENTH CHAPTER