“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.

“Oh, the dog has had a letter from his mistress and he has brought it to the Doctor to read for him.  That’s all.  He belongs to a funny little girl called Minnie Dooley, who lives on the other side of the town.  She has pigtails down her back.  She and her brother have gone away to the seaside for the Summer; and the old retriever is heart-broken while the children are gone.  So they write letters to him—­in English of course.  And as the old dog doesn’t understand them, he brings them here, and the Doctor turns them into dog language for him.  I think Minnie must have written that she is coming back—­ to judge from the dog’s excitement.  Just look at him carrying on!”

Indeed the retriever seemed to be suddenly overcome with joy.  As the Doctor finished the letter the old dog started barking at the top of his voice, wagging his tail wildly and jumping about the study.  He took the letter in his mouth and ran out of the room snorting hard and mumbling to himself.

“He’s going down to meet the coach,” whispered Polynesia.  “That dog’s devotion to those children is more than I can understand.  You should see Minnie!  She’s the most conceited little minx that ever walked.  She squints too.”

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

MY GREAT IDEA

Presently the Doctor looked up and saw us at the door.

“Oh—­come in, Stubbins,” said he, “did you wish to speak to me?  Come in and take a chair.”

“Doctor,” I said, “I want to be a naturalist—­like you—­ when I grow up.”

“Oh you do, do you?” murmured the Doctor.  “Humph!—­Well!—­Dear me!—­ You don’t say!—­Well, well!  Have, you er—­have you spoken to your mother and father about it?”

“No, not yet,” I said.  “I want you to speak to them for me.  You would do it better.  I want to be your helper—­your assistant, if you’ll have me.  Last night my mother was saying that she didn’t consider it right for me to come here so often for meals.  And I’ve been thinking about it a good deal since.  Couldn’t we make some arrangement—­couldn’t I work for my meals and sleep here?”

“But my dear Stubbins,” said the Doctor, laughing, “you are quite welcome to come here for three meals a day all the year round.  I’m only too glad to have you.  Besides, you do do a lot of work, as it is.  I’ve often felt that I ought to pay you for what you do—­ But what arrangement was it that you thought of?”