Doctor Dolittle's Circus

The First Chapter Mr. Bellamy of Manchester

By getting a lift on the road in a fast trap that overtook him, John Dolittle reached the circus late that night, instead of early the following morning, as he had expected. And the first thing that Matthew Mugg said to him as he entered the wagon was:

"Blossom told me he wanted to see you as soon as you got in. That toff from Manchester is still with him."

Thereupon the Doctor immediately left his own wagon and set out for that of the ringmaster. Jip asked could he come along, and the Doctor said yes.

The circus was now all packed up ready for departure early to–morrow morning. As John Dolittle approached Blossom's caravan he saw a light in the window. It was very late—after midnight.

Within he found the ringmaster sitting at the little table with the smartly dressed man whom he had seen earlier in the day.

"Good evening, Doctor," said the ringmaster. "This gentleman is Mr. Frederick Bellamy, proprietor and manager of the Manchester Amphitheatre. He has something 'e'd like to say to you."

The Doctor shook hands with Mr. Bellamy, who at once leant back in his chair, put his thumbs in the armholes of his white waistcoat and began:

"I have delayed my return to Manchester, Doctor Dolittle—in spite of urgent and pressing business—in order to discuss with you an engagement which I had offered to Mr. Blossom this afternoon. I witnessed your act with the Talking Horse and was greatly interested in it. Mr. Blossom tells me that he tried to get you to consent to take part in his show's performance in my theatre, but that you refused—took the horse away to put him grazing."

The Doctor nodded, and Mr. Bellamy went on:

"I then supposed that the deal was off, because—I don't mind telling you—without your turn I would not be interested in this circus. But Mr. Blossom has persuaded me to remain and talk with you myself. He assured me that the intelligence of the performance was not in that particular horse, but in your own unusual powers with animals—that you could give as good a show with any horse. He tells me, though I confess I can hardly believe it, that you can actually communicate with animals in their own language. Is that so?"

"Well," said the Doctor, looking uncomfortable, "I'm sorry that Mr. Blossom told you this. I don't claim it, or talk of it, myself, because I find that people don't usually believe me. But,—yes, it is true. With most animals I can converse freely."

"Indeed," said Mr. Bellamy. "Most extraordinary! That being the case, we had thought that perhaps you would be willing to do us an act with some other animal, or animals, in place of the horse that you have just taken away. My idea is to make it something more elaborate—to have it form the bigger, more important part of Mr. Blossom's show. It is something quite new, this gift of yours. And, properly put on, it ought to make a great sensation. Of course, you understand, it would be well paid for—very, I might say. Would you consider it?"

"I haven't any other turn worked out at the moment," said the Doctor. "I am somewhat new to this business. My idea of shows with animals is that they must always be done with the consent and willing cooperation of the animals themselves."

"Oh, quite, quite," said Mr. Bellamy. "It is very late now. Suppose you think it over until to–morrow. I cannot catch the coach to–night. And if you consider it, let me know in the morning, eh?"

As the Doctor made his way back to his own wagon, Jip who had listened to the conversation with great interest, trotted by his side.

"Doctor," said he, "this seems to me a grand chance for us to do our play—just your own family—me, Too–Too, Gub–Gub, Toby, Swizzle, and perhaps the white mouse. You know, you said you would let us try it some time—'The Animals' Theatre.' You write a comic play for us—Gub–Gub's is no good—sort of vegetable knockabout. You write a play of your own—for animals—something high class. And we'll act it. I'm sure it will make a great sensation in Manchester. It's a big city. And we'll have a real intelligence audience."

In spite of the lateness of the hour, John Dolittle found, when he went back to his own wagon, that all his pets were sitting up waiting to see him and to hear the story of his day's doings.

Jip immediately told them of the interview with the Manchester manager and his own idea of providing an act by getting up an animal play. This was greeted with tremendous enthusiasm and applause from everyone, down to the white mouse.

"Hooray!" gurgled Gub–Gub. "At last I'm to be an actor. And, just think, I shall make my first appearance in Manchester!"

"Don't go so fast," said the Doctor. "We don't know yet that there will be a play. It may not be possible. It doesn't follow because a play amuses you that it will amuse your audience."

Then began a heated argument among the animals about plots for plays—about what kind of things amused people.

"Let's do Cinderella," cried the white mouse. "Everybody knows that, and then I can be one of the mice that the witch turned into footmen."

"Let's do Little Red Riding Hood," said Swizzle. "Then I can play the wolf."

The discussion became so general and interested that the Doctor thought this would be a good time to break the news to Dab–Dab that he had spent the twenty–six pounds.

This he did. And the evening was spoilt for the housekeeper.

"Doctor, Doctor!" she sighed, shaking her head. "What shall I do with you? You're not to be trusted with money—really, you're not. Oh, dear, we'll never get back to Puddleby, I suppose."

But the others, wrapped up in their new interest, brushed the matter aside as though it were nothing.

"Oh," said Gub–Gub, airily, "we'll soon make some more. What is money? Poof! Look here, Doctor, why don't we do Beauty and the Beast? Then I can act the part of the Beauty."

"Great heavens!" cried Jip. "What an idea! No; listen, Doctor: you write the play yourself—because you know what will interest people."

"Why don't you let the Doctor go to bed?" asked the Dab–Dab angrily. "He has had a long day. And it's time you were all asleep yourselves."

"My gracious!" said the Doctor, looking at his watch. "Do you know what time it is? It is two o'clock in the morning … . Go to bed, all of you."

"Oh, we're traveling to–morrow, Doctor," said Gub–Gub. "It doesn't matter what time we get up. Let us stay a little longer. We have to settle on what play we are going to give."

"No, you don't," said Dab–Dab—"not to–night. The Doctor's tired."

"No, I'm not tired," said John Dolittle.

"Well, it's bad for them to stay up late. There's nothing like early bed as a habit."

"Yes, I suppose so," said the Doctor. "But myself, I don't like getting into habits, you know."

"Well, I do," said Dab–Dab—"when they're good ones. I like regular people."

"Do you, Dab–Dab? That's why you're such an excellent housekeeper. There are two kinds of people: those who like habits and those who don't. They both have their good qualities."

"You know, Doctor," Gub–Gub put in, "me—I always divide people into the pickle–eaters and the plain feeders—those who like chutneys and sauces on their food and those who like everything plain."

"It's the same idea, Gub–Gub," the Doctor laughed. "Those that like change in their lives and those that like sameness. Your chutney–eaters are the change–lovers and your plain–fooders are the er—housekeepers. Myself, I hope to grow more adaptable as I grow older."

"What's adaptable, Doctor?" asked Gub–Gub.

"It would take too long to explain now. Go to bed. We'll talk about the play in the morning."

The Second Chapter Animal Plays

When the Dolittle household awoke next morning they found that the wagon was moving. This was nothing new for them. It only meant that the circus had got under way very early while they were still asleep—as it often did in moving from town to town. It was a part of the life, this, that Gub–Gub greatly enjoyed—waking in the morning and looking out of the window to see what kind of new scene lay around their moving home.

"It was a part of the life Gub–Gub greatly enjoyed"

Gub–Gub used to boast that this showed he was a born traveler, that he loved change, like the Doctor. As a matter of fact, he was really by nature much more like Dab–Dab; for no one loved regular habits, especially regular meals, more than he. It was just that the gipsy life provided a continuous and safe sort of adventure for him. He liked excitement, but comfortable excitement, without hardship or danger.

Matthew Mugg came in while the family was still at breakfast.

"Doctor," said he, "that Mr. Bellamy is still with the outfit. Said he might as well come along with us, as we was going the same way as him. But, if you ask me, I reckon the real reason is because he's afraid he may lose sight of you. He's just crazy to get you do a turn at his theatre—don't care nothin' about the rest of Blossom's show. But he's willin' to pay any amount to get you to give a performance of your own with animals."

"Well," said the Doctor, "it isn't as easy as it sounds, Matthew. My own pets here are anxious to do a play. I wrote a sort of comedy last night after they had gone to bed. But, of course, it will have to be rehearsed over and over before it is in shape for him to see it. The animals must know their parts properly. You might go forward and tell him, will you, that I will try to rehearse it while we are traveling, and that I will let him see it to–morrow, if we are far enough on with it."

"All right," said Matthew, and he stepped out of the back of the moving wagon and ran forward to overtake the ringmaster's caravan with his message.

Doctor Dolittle had, as you know, written plays before for animals— dozens of them. I have told you of his very famous little book called One–Act Plays for Penguins. He had also written longer dramas for monkeys and others. But all these had been intended for audience of animals and were written in animal languages. The penguin plays were (and are still, so far as I know) performed during the long winter nights in the open–air theatres of the Antarctic, where the vast audience of quaint birds sit around on the rocks in solemn groups, clapping their flipper–like wings when anything said by the actors strikes them as particularly sensible.

The plays for monkeys were of a much lighter kind. They preferred comedies and farces to the more serious and thoughtful drama that the penguins liked. The monkey plays were enacted in clear places in the jungle and the audience sat in the trees all about. The seats in the boughs right over the stage were the most expensive in the monkey theatres. And a family box, which consisted of a whole branch of a tree, cost as much as a hundred nuts. There was a special rule that families occupying these places should not throw their nutshells or banana peels down onto the performers' heads.

So, you see, John Dolittle was quite experienced as a playwright for animals. But the thing needed by Mr. Bellamy, which was to be shown to an audience of people, had to be different, because people don't understand animal languages. And after much thought the Doctor decided to do away with language altogether. The whole play was to be action. And he called it The Puddleby Pantomime.

The rehearsals for the pantomime were greatly enjoyed by everyone except Dab–Dab. The poor housekeeper, who had herself a part to play in it, was continually stopping the performance to row someone about upsetting the furniture or breaking the teacups or pulling down the curtains.

The inside of the wagon was very close quarters, as you can easily imagine, for acting a play. Added to this, the caravan was moving all the time; and whenever the horse who was pulling it went around a curve or a sharp bend in the road everybody on the stages sat down on the floor; and a squawk from Dab–Dab would show that some new piece of damage had been done to her home. But the rest of the animals got almost as much fun out of the accidents in rehearsal as they did out of the play itself.

The pantomime was just like the old–fashioned Harlequinade. Toby played the part of Harlequin, Dab–Dab was Columbine, Gub–Gub was Pantaloon, Swizzle was the policeman and Jip was Pierrot*. The dance by Harlequin, Columbine and Pierrot caused a lot of merriment, because whenever the dancers were on the tips of their toes, that was certain to be the time when the wagon would give an extra bad lurch and throw the dancers under the bed.

Swizzle, as the policeman, was always arresting poor Pierrot (Jip) and anybody else he met. For a club he used a cucumber—until he broke it in half over Pantaloon (Gub–Gub), whom he was supposed to chase all around the wagon for stealing the string of sausages. Then the prisoner took the policeman's club away from him and ate it. And the Doctor decided to put that idea into the real show and to use a cucumber in Manchester.

Coming on and off the "stage" was very difficult, because the performers had to go out of the door and stand on the narrow steps while the wagon was still going. Gub–Gub, in his part of the comic Pantaloon, had a hard time. He had to make many entrances and many exits—bounding in and out with the red–hot poker or the string of sausages. And in spite of the Doctor's warning him repeatedly to go out carefully, he always forgot that the wagon was moving, and, making his flying exit, he almost invariably fell out of wagon, upside down, into the road. Then the rehearsal would have to be stopped while Mr. Pantaloon picked himself up and ran after his moving theatre to get on the stage again.

The piece was gone through four or five times during that morning while the circus was traveling on to the next town. And when the train of wagons halted for the night the Doctor sent word to Mr. Bellamy that, although the act was still very imperfect and no customers ready yet, he could come and see if it would do.

Then the pantomime was performed again, this time on the solid ground by the side of the road, before an audience of Mr. Bellamy, Blossom, Matthew Mugg and the strong man. On this stage, that stood still instead of lurching from side to side, the piece went much better; and, although Pantaloon got a bit mixed up and popped on and off the stage many times too often, the audience clapped loud and long when it was over and declared it one of the most amusing shows they had ever seen.

"The pantomime was performed by the side of the road"

"Perfectly splendid!" cried Mr. Bellamy. "It's just the thing we want. With a little more rehearsing and proper clothes, that should make a great hit. Nobody can say this act it not enjoyed by the animals that take part in it. Now, I'm going on to Manchester this evening. And after Mr. Blossom has played his week in Little Plimpton he'll bring you on to my theatre to open the beginning of the following week. Monday the seventeenth. In the meantime, I'll do some advertising. And I think we can promise you an audience worth playing to."

The circus's week at Little Plimpton was chiefly occupied by the Dolittle household in preparing and rehearsing the Puddleby Pantomime for its showing in Manchester. As for the pushmi–pullyu, the useful Matthew Mugg took entire charge of his stand, leaving the Doctor free to take care of the play.

Day after day the act was gone through until everyone knew his part perfectly and there seemed no possible chance of a mistake. The Doctor wanted the whole performance to be done by the animals, without himself or any person appearing on the stage from beginning to end. During the rehearsals accidents and odd things happened which gave the Doctor ideas, many of which he put into the play itself, as he had done with the cucumber. Then, too, several of the actors thought up comic notions of their own while the show was being tried out. And if they were good enough John Dolittle put them into the pantomime. For these reasons the act toward the end of rehearsals was much longer and quite a little different from what it had been when shown to Mr. Bellamy. It was much better, too. Gub–Gub thought it so comical that often in the middle of it he would get a giggling fit over his own funniness and be so doubled up with mirth that he couldn't go on with his part.

Theodosia Mugg was very busy during these days, making the costumes. Fitting suits of clothes to animals is not easy. Gub–Gub gave the most trouble. At the first dress rehearsal he came on with his suit upside down, and his wig back–to–front. He had his hind legs through the sleeves of the coat, wearing them as pants. His makeup, too, gave a lot of extra work to the stage manager. Mr. Pantaloon liked the taste of grease paint and he would keep licking his chops during the performance. So of course the rouge on his cheeks very soon got smeared all around his mouth and made him look as though he had been eating bread and jam.

But Pantaloon's greatest trial was his trousers. When at last they did make him understand how his suit was to be worn, he at first fastened his trousers to a belt. But his stomach was so round and smooth his belt would keep slipping off it. And at the first few dress rehearsals whenever he ran on to the stage (always chased by the policeman, of course), as often as not he would lose his pants on the way and arrive on the stage wearing only a coat and a wig. Then Theodosia made a special pair of suspenders for him to keep his pants up with, and the Doctor always inspected his dressing himself.

[ Pic–068.jpg "He would arrive on the stage wearing only a coat and a wig"]

A similar accident happened frequently at the beginning to Dab–Dab, who acted part of Columbine. Theodosia had made her a very cunning little ballet skirt of stiff pink net. But the first time she wore it, the dainty web–footed toe–dancer, doing an especially high kick in her dance with Harlequin, kicked her skirt right over her partner's head. The excitement was added to considerably when Pantaloon, who had just rubbed in, picked up the skirt, and put it on himself in place of the pants he had lost, as usual, in his hurried entrance.

So, as you can easily imagine, Stage Manager Dolittle and Theodosia, the mistress of the wardrobe, had their hands pretty full. Acting as people was hard enough for the animals by itself; but acting in clothes that they were not accustomed to wearing was a tremendous job, when only a week could be taken for rehearsing. Many times the Doctor was in despair over the costuming part of it. However, Theodosia worked out a lot of very cunning dodges, by means of secret buttons, hooks, elastics and tapes, to hold the clothes and hats and wigs in place. Then by making the actors wear their costumes all day long the Doctor finally got his performers so they could move, and run and dance in clothes as easily as they could without them.

The Third Chapter The Poster and the Statue

The day the circus moved to Manchester was a great one for the Dolittle household. None of the animals except Jip had been in a real large city before. On the way there Gub–Gub was constantly at the window of the caravan, watching the road and shouting out word over his shoulder to the others when anything new or wonderful came in sight.

Mr. Bellomy's show place was situated on the edge of the city. It was a big amusement park, with all sorts of sideshows of its own and a large theatre building in the centre. Prizefights, wrestling matches, brass band contests and all manner of entertainments were held in a large open–air place behind the theatre. It was oval in shape and had seats banked up high all around it. This it was that had given it its name, the Amphitheatre, because it was like the great open–air theatres of the Romans.

To Mr. Bellamy's amusement park the citizens of Manchester came out in thousands when they were in need of recreation—especially Saturday afternoons and in the evenings. At night the whole place was lit up with strings of little lights, and very gay and pretty it looked.

The park was so big that Blossom's "Mammoth Circus" could fit into one corner of it and not be seen. The ringmaster was greatly impressed.

"Lor' bless me," he said to the Doctor, "this is the way to run the show business all right—on a grand scale. Bellamy must be rolling in money. Why, the theatre building alone could hold three times as many people as we can fit into our big tent!"

Blossom's Circus party, feeling dreadfully small and unimportant in such a huge concern, were guided to a place where they could halt and settle down. Shortly after the horses were stabled and the great Mr. Bellamy himself turned up. The first thing he inquired for was the Puddleby Pantomime troupe.

"As for the rest of your show," he said to Blossom, "I'll leave you this corner of the grounds, and you can set up and do what business you can on your own. We get the bigger crowds after five o'clock in the evening and all Saturday afternoon—when we usually run a prizefight over in the arena. But Doctor Dolittle's company I am going to take care of separately. Of course, I'll pay the money through you, as I told you, and you divide it in whatever way you two arrange. But from now on he and his animals are under my management, you understand, and are not to be interfered with by anybody else. That's what we agreed on, isn't it?"

Then while Blossom and his men got their own sideshows set up the Dolittle household and its wagon were taken off to another part of the grounds—close to the theatre—and given a space within a high fence, where they could settle down in comfort.

Here they found a few other tents and caravans, the homes of various special performers taking part in the daily, or rather nightly, show which was given in the theatre. Dancers they were, tight–rope walkers, singers and what not.

After the beds were made up and the Dolittle wagon put in order, the Doctor suggested a walk through the city. Jip and Gub–Gub at once asked could they come, and the Doctor consented. Dab–Dab thought she ought to remain behind and finish unpacking and to get food cooked for supper.

Then when the Doctor had been over to make sure that Matthew Mugg had got the pushmi–pullyu comfortably settled he set out, accompanied by Gub–Gub and Jip, to see the sights of Manchester.

"He set out to see the sights of Manchester"

To reach the city proper they had to walk about half a mile through districts of ordinary houses and gardens which surrounded the big town.

Of course, John Dolittle and Jip, having been in London more than once, knew what a regular city looked like. But Gub–Gub, when they entered the thronged streets, teeming with traffic, bordered by grand shops and buildings, was greatly impressed.

"What a lot of people!" he murmured, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. "And just look at the cabs! I didn't know there were so many in the world—following one another down the street like a parade. And such splendid vegetable shops! Did you ever see such enormous tomatoes! Oh, I like this place. It's much bigger than Puddleby isn't it? And much gayer. Yes, I like this town."

They came to an open place, a big square, with especially fine stone buildings on all sides of it. Gub–Gub wanted to know all about each of them, and the Doctor had to explain what a bank was, and a corn exchange and a municipal hall, and many more.

"And what's that?" asked Gub–Gub, pointing to the middle of the square.

"That's a statue," said the Doctor.

It was a very grand monument of a man on horseback. And Gub–Gub asked who he was.

"That's General Slade," said the Doctor.

"But why do they put a statue up to him?"

"Because he was a famous man," answered the Doctor. "He fought in India—against the French."

They passed out of this square and a little further on entered another, a smaller one, with no statue in it. As they were crossing it Gub–Gub suddenly stopped dead.

"Great heavens, Doctor!" he cried. "Look!"

At the far side of the square, on a hoarding, was an enormous poster —a picture of a pig dressed as Pantaloon, holding a string of sausages.

"Why, it's me, Doctor!" said Gub–Gub, hurrying toward it.

And sure enough, written across the top in large letters was: "The Puddleby Pantomime. A Mystery. Come and see the Unique Harlequinade. Bellamy's Amphitheatre. Next Monday."

The manger had been as good as his word. He had had an artist make pictures of the characters in the Doctor's play and posted them all over the city.

They couldn't get Gub–Gub away from it. The idea of coming into this big town and finding his own pictures on the walls and himself a famous actor already, entirely fascinated him.

"Perhaps they'll put up a statue of me next," he said—"like the general. Look, there's room for one here. They haven't got any in this square."

As they went through the streets they found more pictures of their show—some of Dab–Dab, poised on her toes in a ballet skirt; some of Swizzle, with a policeman's helmet on his head. But whenever they passed one of Pantaloon they had the hardest work dragging Gub–Gub away. He would have sat in front of it all night, if they had let him, admiring himself as a famous actor.

"I really think you ought to speak to the Mayor about my statue, Doctor," said he, as he sauntered homeward with his nose carried high in the air. "Perhaps they'll want to move the general into a smaller square and put me in the larger one."

On the morning of Monday, the day when the Pantomime was to make its first appearance before the public, there was a dress rehearsal of it and the rest of the show to be given in the theatre. This was what is known as a variety show. There were a number of different acts, dancers, singers, jugglers, and so forth. They came on to the stage in turn and went through their performance, with the orchestra playing the proper music for each one.

At the sides of the stage there were little frames, and at the beginning of each act footmen in livery came out and pushed big cards into them. These cards had the name of the new act on them, and were displayed in this way so that the audience could read what was coming. The Doctor suggested that with the Puddleby Pantomime the card–changing should be done by animals, instead of footmen. Mr. Bellamy thought it was a splendid idea. And while the Doctor was wondering what animals he could get Too–Too suggested that he be given the job.

"But we need two," said the Doctor. "You see how the footmen do it —like soldiers. They march out with the cards in their hand— just as though they were drilling, go to each side of the stage— pull the old card out and stick the new one in."

"The footman came out and pushed big cards into them"

"That's all right, Doctor," said Too–Too. "I can soon get another owl and we'll make a better pair than those footmen. You wait till I take a hunt around the country outside the city."

Too–Too flew off, and before half an hour had passed he was back again with another owl who was the dead image of himself, and the exact same size. Then stools were placed on the corners of the stage, so that the little birds could reach the frames and the owl footmen were drilled in their parts.

Even the musicians in the orchestra, accustomed to seeing wonderful things done on the stage, were astonished when Too–Too and his brother owl appeared from behind the curtains. They were really must smarter at the job than the footmen in velvet. Like two clockwork figures, they hopped onto the stools, changed the cards, bowed to the imaginary audience and retired.

"My!" said the bass fiddler to the trombone player. "Did you ever see the like? You'd think they'd been working in a variety hall all their lives!"

Then the Doctor, who was himself quite a musician, discussed with the conductor what kind of music should be played while the pantomime was going on.

"I want something lively," said John Dolittle, "but very, very soft —pianissimo the whole time."

"All right," said the conductor. "I'll play you the thing we do for the tight rope walkers—sort of tense."

Then he tapped his desk with his baton to make the orchestra get ready, and played a few opening bars. It was exciting, trembly* music, played very, very quietly. It made you think of fairies fluttering across lawns in the moonlight.

"That's splendid," said the Doctor, as the conductor stopped. "Now, when Columbine begins to dance I want the minuet from Don Juan—because that's the tune she has always practised to. And every time Pantaloon falls down have the percussion give the bass drum a good bang, please."

Then the Puddleby Pantomime was gone through on a real stage, with a real orchestra and real scenery—the last dress rehearsal. Gub–Gub found the glare of the footlights dazzling and confusing. But he and all the actors had by this time done the piece so often that they could have played it in their sleep. And the show went with a dash from beginning to end, without a single accident or slip.

When it was over Mr. Bellamy said:

"Just one thing more: when the audience is here your actors will be called out before the curtain. You'll have to show them how to take the call."

Then the performers were rehearsed in bowing. The five of them trooped on again, hand in hand, bowed to the empty theatre and trooped off.

In the course o their eventful lives the animals of Doctor Dolittle's household had had many exciting times. But I doubt if anything ever happened to them which they remembered longer or spoke of afterward more often than their first appearance before the public in the famous Puddleby Pantomime.

I say famous because it did, in fact, become very famous. Not only was it reported in the newspapers of Manchester as a sensational success, but it was written up in those magazines devoted to stagecraft and theatrical news, as something entirely new to the show business. Lots of acts with animals dressed as people had been done before, of course—some very good. But in all of them the performers never knew just why they did the things they did, nor the meaning of most of their act. Whereas the Doctor, being able to converse with his actors in their own language, had produced a play which was entirely perfect, down to the smallest detail. For instance, he had spent days in showing Toby how to wink one eye, and still longer in getting Pantaloon to throw back his head and laugh like a person. Gub–Gub used to practise it in front of a mirror by the hour. Pigs have their own way of laughing, of course, which most people don't know of; and that is just as well, because sometimes they find humans very amusing. But to have animals laughing and frowning and smiling at the right places in a play— perfectly naturally and exactly the way people would do it— was something that had never been seen on the stage before.

"Gub–Gub used to practice it by the hour"

Good weather and Mr. Bellamy's advertising had brought a large crowd out to the amusement park Monday evening. Long before the show was due to start the theatre was beginning to fill.

Of the Dolittle troupe, waiting their turn behind the scene, no one was more anxious than the Doctor himself. None of his animals, with the exception of Swizzle, had ever performed before a real audience before. And it did not follow that because they had acted all right with only Mr. Bellamy and a few others looking on, they would be just as good when facing a packed theatre.

As he heard the first few notes of the orchestra tuning up their instruments the Doctor peeped through the curtain into the audience. He could see nothing but faces. There did not seem to be room to get another in anywhere, but still the people crowded up to the big entrances at the end of the long hall, trying to find standing room in the aisles—or even outside of the doorways, where, on tiptoe, they could still get a glimpse of the stage.

"Doctor," whispered Dab–Dab, who was also peeping, "this at last ought to make us rich. Blossom said that Mr. Bellamy had promised him one hundred pounds a day—and more, if the audiences were larger than a certain number. It would be impossible for it to be bigger than this. You couldn't get a fly into that theatre, it's so packed. What are they stamping and whistling for?"

"That's because, the show is late in beginning," said the Doctor, looking at his watch. "They're impatient. Oh, look out! Let's get off the stage. They're going to pull the curtain up. See, there's the singing couple in the wings, ready to do the first act. Come on hurry! Where's Gub–Gub got to? I'm so afraid that wig of his will slip out of place.—Oh, here he is. Thank goodness, it's all right—and his pants, too. Now, all of you stay here and keep together. Our show goes on as soon as this act is over. Stop licking your face, Gub–Gub, for heaven's sake! I won't have time to make you up again."

The Fourth Chapter Fame, Fortune―and Rain

Stage Manager Dolittle's anxiety about his company's behavior before a real audience turned out to be unnecessary. The lights and the music and the enormous crowd, instead of scaring the animals, had the effect of making them act the better. The Doctor said afterward that they had never done as well in rehearsal.

As for the audience, from the moment that the curtain went up they were simply spellbound. At the beginning many people would not believe that the actors were animals. They whispered to one another that it must be a troupe of boys or dwarfs, with masks on their faces. But there could be no disguising the two little owls who had opened the show by marching out like soldiers with the announcement cards. And as the pantomime proceeded even the most unbelieving of the audience could see that no human actors, no matter how well trained and disguised, could move and look like this.

At first Gub–Gub was an easy favorite. His grimaces and antics made the audience rock with laughter. But when Dab–Dab came on, opinion was divided. Her dance with Toby and Jip simply brought down the house, as the saying goes. She captivated everybody. And it was really marvelous, considering how ungainly she usually was in her movements, to see with what grace she did the minuet. The people clapped, stamped the floor, yelled "Encore!" and just wouldn't let the show go on till she had done her dance a second time.

Then a lady in the front row threw a bunch of violets onto the stage. Dab–Dab had never had flowers thrown at her before and didn't know what to make of it. But Swizzle, an old actor, understood. Springing forward, he picked up the bouquet and handed it with a flourish to Columbine.

"Bow!" whispered the Doctor from the wings in duck language. "Bow to the audience—to the lady who threw the bouquet!"

And Dab–Dab curtsied like a regular ballerina.

"Dab–Dab curtsied like a regular ballerina"

When the curtain came down at the end and the music of the orchestra blared out loud the applause was deafening. The company trooped on hand in hand and bowed again and again. And still the audience called them back. Then the Doctor made them take the calls separately. Gub–Gub did antics and made faces; Swizzle took off his helmet and bowed; Toby sprang into the air with harlequinish agility; Jip struck tragic Pierrot–like attitudes, and Dab–Dab once more brought down the house by pirouetting across the stage on her toes, flipping kisses to the audience with the tips of her wings.

More bouquets were thrown to Columbine and a bunch of carrots to Pantaloon—which he started eating before he left the stage.

Mr. Bellamy said he had never seen such enthusiasm in the theatre since he had owned it. And he immediately asked Blossom if he would be willing to renew the engagement for a second week.

When the other turns were over and the audience left the theatre Gub–Gub went out into the hall to look at the stage from the seats. There he found many programs scattered around the floor. He asked the Doctor what they were. And he was delighted when he was shown his own name printed there as playing the part of Pantaloon.

"Humph!" said he, folding it carefully. "I must keep this. I think I'll put it in my menu album."

"Don't you mean your stamp album?" asked the Doctor.

"No," said Gub–Gub. "I gave up collecting stamps some time ago. I collects menus now. They're much better fun to look at."

The Dolittle household, now that they were encamped near the theatre, did not see so much of their old friends of the circus. Nevertheless, the Doctor frequently went across the amusement park to see how Matthew and the pushmi–pullyu were getting on. And Hop the clown, Hercules and the Pintos often visited the theatre to see the pantomime and to make tea at the Dolittle wagon.

The extraordinary success of the Doctor's play continued throughout the week—the crowds growing greater, if anything, with each performance. It became necessary to secure seats a long way in advance if you wanted to see the show, a thing which had only happened once before at the Amphitheatre when a world–famous violinist had played there.

Wealthy gentlemen and elegant ladies called at the Doctor's little wagon almost every evening to congratulate him and to see and pet his marvelous animal actors. Gub–Gub got frightfully conceited and put on no end of temperamental airs, often refusing to see his admirers if they called during the hour he was accustomed to take for his nap.

"Famous artists have to be very careful of themselves," he said. "I am only at home to callers between ten and twelve in the morning. You better have that printed in the newspapers, Doctor."

One lady brought an autograph album for him to sign, and with the Doctor's help, he put a very clumsy "G. G." in it for her and the picture of a parsnip, which, he said, was his family crest.

Dab–Dab, although she had become just as famous, was much more easily interviewed by visitors. Immediately after each performance she could be seen bustling about her household duties in the wagon, often still wearing her ballet skirt while she made beds or fried potatoes.

"That pig makes me tired," she said. "What's the use of our putting on airs? None of us would be famous if it hadn't been for the Doctor. Any animal could do what we do if they had him to teach them. By the way, Doctor," she added, spreading the tablecloth for supper, "have you been to see Blossom about the money?"

"No," said the Doctor. "Why bother yet? The first week is hardly over. And I understand the pantomime is to run a second one. No, I haven't seen Blossom in—let me see—not in three days."

"Well, you ought to. You should go and get your share of the money every night."

"Why? Blossom is a trustworthy man."

"Is he?" said Dab–Dab, putting the salt–cellars on the table. "Well, I wouldn't trust him further than I could see him. If you take my advice, you'll get your money each night. There must be a lot owing to you, especially since they put the pantomime on twice a day instead of only in the evening."

"Oh, that's all right, Dab–Dab," said the Doctor. "Don't worry. Blossom will bring me the money as soon as he has his accounts straightened out."

The housekeeper during the next few days frequently asked John Dolittle to see about this matter, but he never would. And even after the first week was over and the second nearly so Blossom had not come forward with the Doctor's share, nor, indeed, was he often seen by any member of the Dolittle household. The pushmi–pullyu had also done well with his sideshows, and, as the money made by this was quite sufficient for living expenses, the easy–going Doctor, as usual, refused to worry.

Toward the end of the second week the fame of the Puddleby Pantomime had become so great and so many people had called to interview the Doctor and his company that it was decided to give an at home and to invite the public to tea. [ Transcriber note—"to give an at home" is as it was in book]

Then for a whole morning the good housekeeper was more than usually busy. Over two hundred printed cards of invitation had been sent out. Mrs. Mugg was called in to help. A large number of small tables were set about the wagon; the inside of the caravan was decorated with flowers; lots of tea and cakes were prepared and at four o'clock on Saturday afternoon the gates of the little enclosure beside the theatre were thrown open to visitors.

All the animals, some of them dressed in their pantomime costumes, then acted as hosts and sat around at the tables, sipping tea with the elegant ladies and gentlemen who were anxious to meet them. It was a farewell party, for the next day the whole of Blossom's Circus was to leave. The Mayor of the city came and the Mayoress and a number of newspaper reporters, who made sketches in their notebooks of Hostess Dab–Dab pouring tea and Gub–Gub handing around cakes.

"Gub–Gub handing round cakes"

The next day, after one of the most successful visits of its career, the circus packed up and moved out of Manchester.

The town they went to was a small one, some twelve miles to the northeast. Rain began to fall as the wagons arrived at the show ground and th work of setting up was very disagreeable for everyone. For, besides the wretched, steady drizzle, the dirt underfoot soon got worked up into mud with the constant tramping of feet.

The rain continued the next day, and the next. This, of course, was a terrible thing for the circus business, because nobody came to see the show.

"Well, never mind," said the Doctor, as his family sat down to breakfast on the third rainy morning. "We made plenty of money in Manchester. That should tide us over a bad spell easily."

"Yes, but you haven't got that money yet, remember," said Dab–Dab, "thought goodness knows I've told you often enough to ask Blossom for it."

"I saw him this morning," said John Dolittle, "just before I came in to breakfast. It's quite all right. He says it was such a large amount he was afraid to keep it on him or in his wagon. So he put it in a bank in Manchester."

"Well, why didn't he take it out of the bank when he left," asked Dab–Dab, "and give you half of it?"

"It was a Sunday," said the Doctor. "And, of course, the banks were closed."

"But what does he mean to do about it, then?" asked the housekeeper. "He isn't going to leave it there, is he?"

"He's going back to–day to fetch it. He was just starting off on horseback when I spoke to him. I didn't envy him his ride in the rain."

Now, running a circus is an expensive thing. The animals have to be fed, the workmen and performers have to be paid and there are a whole lot of other expenses for which money must be handed out hourly. So that during these rainy days, when no people came and the enclosure stood wet and empty instead of making money, "The Mammoth Circus" was losing it every day—every hour, in fact.

Just as the Doctor finished speaking the menagerie keeper, with his coat collar turned up against the rain, poked his head in at the door.

"Seen the boss anywhere around?" he asked.

"Mr. Blossom has gone into Manchester," said John Dolittle. "He expects to be back about two in the afternoon, he told me."

"Humph!" said the man. "That's a nuisance."

"Why?" asked the Doctor. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I want money for rice and hay—for the menagerie," said the keeper. "The boss said he'd give me some this morning. The corn dealer's brought the feed. 'E won't leave it unless he gets his money. And my animals need the stuff bad."

"Oh, I suppose it slipped Mr. Blossom's mind," said the Doctor. "I'll pay the bill for you and get it from him when he returns. How much is it?"

"Thirty shillings," said the keeper—"two bales of hay and fifty pounds of rice."

"All right," said the Doctor. "Too–Too, give me the money box."

"There you are! There you are!" Dab–Dab broke in, her feathers all ruffled up with anger. "Instead of getting the money from Blossom that he owes you, you are paying his bills for him! The animals' feed isn't your concern. What's the use? What's the use? Blossom getting richer and you getting poorer; that's you, all over."

"The animals must be fed," said the Doctor, taking the money from the box and giving it to the keeper. "I'll get it back, Dab–Dab. Don't worry!"

The rain grew heavier and heavier all that morning. This was the circus's fourth day in this town. Hardly a penny had been taken in at the gates since the tents had been set up.

The Doctor, ever since his performance with Beppo at Bridgeton, had been looked upon by the show folk with an almost superstitious respect. Any man, they felt, who could talk the language of animals must know more about them than a mere ringmaster like Blossom. The Doctor had little by little made great changes throughout the management of the whole concern—though there still remained a tremendous lot that he wished to alter. Many of the performers had for some time considered him as the most important man in the circus and Blossom as just a figurehead.

The menagerie keeper had hardly left before another man turned up wanting money for some other of the daily expenses of the show. And throughout that morning people kept coming to the Doctor with tales that Blossom had promised them payment at a certain time. The result, of course, was that before long the Dolittle money box (which had been quite well filled by the pushmi–pullyu's exhibition the last two weeks) was empty once more.

Two o'clock in the afternoon came—three o'clock—and still Mr. Blossom hadn't returned.

"Oh, he must have been delayed," said the Doctor to Dab–Dab, who was getting more anxious and more angry every minute. "He'll be here soon. He's honest. I'm sure of that. Don't worry."

At half–past three Jip, who had been out nosing around in the rain, suddenly rushed in.

"Doctor!" he cried. "Come over to Blossom's wagon. I think there's something wrong."

"Why, Jip? What's the matter?" said the Doctor, reaching for his hat.

"Mrs. Blossom isn't there," said Jip. "At first I thought the door was locked. But I pushed it, and it wasn't. There's nobody in it. His trunk is gone—and nearly everything else, too. Come over and look. There's something queer about this."

The Fifth Chapter Mr. Blossom's Mysterious Disappearance

Jip's words brought a puzzled frown into the Doctor's face. Slowly he put on his hat and followed the dog out into the rain.

On reaching Blossom's wagon he found everything as Jip had described it. There was no one within. Every article of value had been taken away. A few torn papers lay scattered on the floor. In the inner room, Mrs. Blossom's private boudoir, the same situation met the Doctor's eyes. The whole place looked as though those who lived there had left in a hurry, to be gone a long time.

While John Dolittle was still gazing confusedly around him someone touched him on the shoulder from behind. It was Matthew Mugg.

"Looks kind of bad, don't it?" he said. "Blossom didn't have to take his trunk and all to go and get his money out of the bank. If you was to ask me, I've a kind of a notion that we ain't goin' to see our good, kind manager no more. Eh?"

"Well, Matthew," said the Doctor, "we mustn't jump to conclusions. He said he'd be back. He may have been delayed. As to his trunk and things, they're his own. He has a right to do what he wants with them. It would be wrong to pass any judgments until we have more evidence than that.

"Humph!" muttered the Cat's–Meat–Man. "O' course, you always did hate to think anybody crooked. Still, I think you can say good–by to the money you earned in Manchester."

"We haven't any proof, Matthew," said the Doctor. "And listen: if what you suspect is true, it's going to be a very serious matter for all the people in the circus. Please don't say anything of your suspicions for the present, will you? There is no need to get the show folk excited until we really know. Now, will you please saddle up a horse quietly and go into Manchester for me? See Mr. Bellamy and ask him if he knows anything of what has become of Blossom. Get back here and bring me word as soon as you can, will you?"

"All right," said Matthew, turning to go. "But I don't think Mr. Bellamy'll know any more of where our manager's gone than what you do. 'E's probably on 'is way to the Continong* by now."

Jip, after listening to this conversation, slipped away and joined the other animals in the Doctor's own wagon.

"Fellows," he said, shaking the wet out of himself, "Alexander Blossom has skidaddled*."

"Good heavens!" cried Too–Too. "With the money?"

"Yes, with the money—drat him!" growled Jip. "And there was enough coming to the Doctor to keep us in comfort for the rest of our days."

"I knew it!" groaned Dab–Dab, throwing out her wings in despair. "I told the Doctor not to trust him. I guessed him to be a fishy customer from the start. Now he's wallowing in luxury while we scrape and pinch to pay the bills he left behind."

"Oh, what does it matter?" cried Gub–Gub. "So much the better if he's gone. Now we'll have a real circus—The Dolittle Circus— which the animals have always hoped for. Good riddance to Blossom—the crook! I'm glad he's gone."

"What you don't know," said Dab–Dab, turning on the pig severely, "would fill a library. How is the Doctor to run a circus without a penny in his pocket? How is he going to pay wages—ground rent? How is he going to feed the animals and himself? It costs pounds and pounds a day to keep a circus going, you pudding, you! And look at the rain—coming down as though it never meant to stop! And the whole show just standing here and not a soul coming to see it! And wagon loads of animals eating up pounds of money a day! And the payroll of dozens of men mounting higher every minute. 'Glad he's gone!—you—you sausage!"

After Matthew had gone the Doctor remained within the shelter of Blossom's deserted wagon, thoughtfully watching the rain splatter into the muddy puddles outside. Presently he sat down on an old packing case and lit his pipe. From time to time he took out his watch and looked at it, frowning.

After half an hour had gone by he saw Hercules, dressed in ordinary clothes, approaching across the enclosure. He was running to avoid the rain. Reaching the wagon, he sprang within, and then shook his wet overcoat outside the doorway.

"I hear the boss has skipped," he said. "Is it true?"

"I have no idea," said the Doctor. "He is late in returning from Manchester. But something may have detained him."

"Well, I hope he comes soon," said Hercules. "He owes me a week's wages. And I need it."

The strong man sat down and he and the Doctor fell to chatting about weather and weather signs.

Not many minutes later along came Hop the clown, with his dog, Swizzle. Evil news travels fast. He, too, had heard a humor that Blossom had deserted the circus. The Doctor tried again to excuse the ringmaster, and insisted that he be not suspected till proof was obtained.

Then, rather awkwardly and without much interest, the conversation continued about the weather.

Next, the Pinto Brothers, trapeze artists, arrived with mackintoshes thrown over their gawdy tights. They also wanted to know where Blossom was, and why they hadn't received the pay which they had been promised would be given them this morning.

"The Pinto Brothers arrived"

The Doctor, growing more and more distressed, hoping Blossom would turn up any minute, began to find it hard to keep the talk on any other subject but the mysterious disappearance of the manager.

At last the foreman of the tent riggers joined the circle.

"It looks rummy to me," he said when he had been told all there was to be told—"I got three children and a wife to keep. 'Ow are they going to live if I don't get no wages? My missus ain't got enough food in the wagon for another meal."

"Yes," said one of the Pinto Brothers. "And we got a new baby in my family. If Blossom's running off with the money we ought to let the police know."

"But we have no proof he is running off," said the Doctor. "He may arrive any minute."

"And he may not, Doctor," Hercules put in. "If he is a queer one, by the time you get your proof he'll be in China, maybe—where nobody can get at him. It's nearly six now. The Pintos are right. What are we standing around here for, guessing and wondering? At least we ought to send somebody into Manchester to find out what we can."

"I have sent somebody in," said the Doctor. "Matthew Mugg, my assistant, has gone."

"Humph!" said one of the acrobats. "So you got kind of suspicious yourself, Doctor, eh? What time did you send him?"

The Doctor looked at his watch again.

"About four hours ago," said he.

"Time to get there and back," grunted Hercules. "'E couldn't find no trace of 'im, I'll warrant. Boys, it looks to me like we was ditched, all right…. Lord! I wish I had 'im here. I'd make Mr. Blossom look like the last rose of a summer."

And the strong man's ham–like hands went through the action of twisting the top off something.

"But 'e's left an awful lot of property behind," said the tent–rigger. "I don't yet understand what made 'im skip at this stage of the game."

"What e' left behind—besides unpaid bills," said Hercules, "ain't nothing compared with what 'e took with 'im. 'Eaven only knows what 'e got from Bellamy for the Doctor's show—biggest takings this outfit ever saw. And all 'e give us was excuses—kept puttin' off payin' us for some fake reason or other—for three weeks back. I reckon 'e 'ad it in 'is mind to clear out all the time— 'ad it planned as soon as 'e saw a big haul in sight."

"Well, what are we going to do?" asked Hop.

"Yes, that's the question," said the Pintos. "What are we going to do now?"

"We got to find another manager," said Hercules. "Someone to take over the outfit and get us out of this hole."

The Sixth Chapter The Doctor Becomes Manager of the Circus

It was curious to see how, as soon as the strong man spoke of a new manager, all the eyes of the little crowd gathered in the wagon turned upon John Dolittle.

"Doctor," said Hercules, "it looks to me like you'd got to be the new boss. And if anybody was to ask me. I'll say you'd make a pretty good one. How about it, boys?"

"Aye! Aye!" they all cried. "The Doc's the man."

"That being the case," said Hercules, "in the name of the staff of the Greatest Show on Earth, I present you, Doctor, with the circus of the late lamented Alexander Blossom. From now on, with us, your word is law."

"But—good heavens!" the Doctor stammered. "I don't know anything about circus management, and, besides, I―"

"'But I don't know anything about circus management!'"

"Oh, yes, you do," Hercules broke in. "Wasn't it your act with Beppo that made the big week at Bridgeton? And wasn't it you what got the circus brought to Manchester? Why, bless me, you can talk to the bloomin' animals! We ain't worried. Meself, I've a kind of an idea we'll make more money under you than ever we made—or lost—under Blossom. You go ahead and manage."

"Yes," said Hop. "That's right, Doctor. Lord only knows what's going to happen to us if you don't. We're in the soup—dead broke. And you're the one to pull us out."

For a full minute the Doctor did not answer—just sat, thinking, on his packing case. At last he looked around at the miserable waiting group and said:

"Very well. I had not intended going into this business for long when I started. But I certainly can't get out of it now— not only on your account, but on account of my own animals and my responsibility to them. For I, too, am—er—dead broke. If you want me to manage for you, I'll try it. But I'm going to do it a little differently from Blossom's way. I'm going to run the circus on a cooperative basis—that is, instead of wages, we will all take our share of the money made, after expenses are paid. That means that when business is bad you will get very little— may even have to pay a little; and when business is good you will do well. Also, I claim the right to dismiss anyone from the circus without notice at any moment."

"That's the idea!" said Hercules. "That's the way a circus should be run—everybody partners in the business, but one man boss."

"But listen," said the Doctor. "For the beginning it's going to be hard work and very little money. We haven't got a cent in hand, and until the rain stops we shan't make a penny. What's worse, we will probably run into debt for a while—supposing, even, that we can get anybody to give us supplies on credit. Are you willing?"

"You bet we are!" … "We're with you, Doc!" … "Nobody's going to grumble!" … "You're the right boss!" they cried. And immediately the appearance of the whole crowd had changed from miserable gloom to hopeful smiles and enthusiasm.

In the midst of this arrived Matthew Mugg, with Mr. Bellamy himself.

"I'm terribly sorry to hear of this," said Mr. Bellamy, addressing the Doctor. "I gave that scoundrel Blossom two thousand pounds. He has cleared out with the whole lot, it seems—even left tradespeople unpaid in the city. It was their coming to me that first told me of his crookedness; and then your Mr. Mugg arrived. I've put the police on Blossom's trial, but I don't think there's the least chance of their catching him. You had better come back to Manchester, and I will give you space at the Amphitheatre pack until you have made enough to carry on."

"Hooray!" yelled Hop. "And, look, the rain has stopped! Our luck has changed. Hooray for the Dolittle Circus."

"Pardon me!" said a small, polite voice from the door. "Is Doctor Dolittle here?"

Everyone turned; and there stood a small man in the entrance. Behind him the sun was now shining brightly.

"I am John Dolittle," said the Doctor.

"How do you do," said the little man. "I have been sent on a special mission by a firm of theatrical producers. I am instructed to make you an offer. They wish you to bring your troupe to London next month—if you have not been already booked."

"Hah!" cried Hercules. "What did I tell you, boys? First minute he's manager he gets an offer from Manchester and another from London. Three cheers for the Doctor!"

It was a day of great rejoicing for both the animals and the people of the circus when the Doctor took over the management. As soon as the news got around the enclosure tent–riggers, stable boys, performers—everybody, in fact, who was part of the establishment —came to the Doctor to congratulate him and to say how glad they were to be under his direction. With the stopping of the rain a general cheerfulness and hustle began. And the very first thing done was the taking down of the "Blossom's Mammoth Circus" sign over the main entrance and erecting in its place the "Dolittle Circus"— a more modest title, but one which was to become far greater and better known than Blossom's had ever been.

"Putting up the new sign"

Mr. Bellomy was very kind. Realizing that the Doctor and everyone had been left practically penniless, he offered to help the new management with loans of money or in any other way he could. However, John Dolittle was most anxious to avoid getting the circus further into debt than it already was, and all he asked of Mr. Bellamy was to visit some of the tradespeople of this town with him and ask them to give him credit, to trust him for a while. Mr. Bellamy was, of course, very well known for miles and miles around Manchester. And the local corn–dealer, grocer, butcher and the rest were perfectly willing, when he asked them, to give the Doctor provisions and to wait for their money till the circus had made enough to pay its bills.

For the same reason, to avoid getting into debt, the Doctor decided not to move back to Manchester, but to keep the show where it was for the present. And with better weather the attendance soon began to be quite considerable. Mr. Bellamy's arrival and his visit to the tradespeople of the town were a good advertisement for the Dolittle Circus. Another advertisement better still was, curiously enough, Blossom's theft and disappearance. No sooner had it become known in Manchester that the ringmaster had run away with a large sum of money than the newspapers took it up and wrote long stories of how the famous Puddleby Pantomime had been robbed and left stranded in a small town twelve miles from the city. The story was reprinted in country papers. And suddenly the people of this same small town woke up to the fact that they had the Puddleby Pantomime in their midst and hadn't noticed it (on account of the rain) till they read of it in the papers.

Then, of course, everybody began talking of the robbery and everybody wanted to go and see the pantomime and the Doctor and the famous animal actors who had made such a sensation in Manchester. And the next thing the whole town was tramping in at the gates of the Dolittle Circus.

As I have said, it was not a large town, but for the three days the business was good enough to enable the Doctor to pay all the bills off and to buy more provisions on which to keep going. There was even a little over to pay everybody a small— very small—amount of wages.

Too–Too, the expert accountant, was busier now than he had ever been. For not only did he keep record of how much the pushmi–pullyu made, but he kept the books for the whole circus. This, with the Doctor's new "coöperative*" arrangement, was no easy task. Strict account of all money paid out to tradespeople had to be carefully entered, and the profits left divided among all the people of the circus in proportion to the amount of work they did. For instance, some of the tent–riggers and wagon–drivers who really only worked one or two days a week did not get so large a share as the side–show performers who were at work all the week. But every one got more when business was good, and less when it was bad.

Although nearly the whole staff were glad to have the Doctor's management and willingly stayed on with the circus even in the distressful conditions under which the new management began, there were, nevertheless, one or two malcontents who wanted large wages right away before the debts and bills were paid. These, as a matter of fact, were people that the Doctor was glad to part with anyway. And as soon as he could raise the money to pay them off he sent them about their business. The Dolittle Circus began, in consequence, somewhat smaller than the Blossom Circus ended, but it began along strictly honest lines and with every man and animal in it united, hopeful and contented under the new management.

The Seventh Chapter Matthew Mugg, Assistant Manager

Another member of the staff, besides Too–Too, the accountant, to be more than usually occupied in the first days of the Dolittle Circus was Dab–Dab, the housekeeper.

"You know," said she to Too–Too and Jip one night, "all this looks very nice—and I certainly don't want to be a kill–joy—but I wish we had some one else besides the Doctor to take care of the business end of things. He is fine where working out of new animal shows is concerned. As a stage manager no one could be better. But I know what's going to happen: all the other partners, Hercules and Hop and the Pintos and the rest, are going to get rich; and the Doctor is going to stay poor. Why, only last night he was talking about sending the opossum back to Virginia. He wants to climb trees, it seems—in the moonlight—and we haven't got the right kind of trees or moonlight here. I told him the moon in England is just as good as it is in Virginia. But he says it isn't—not green enough. Heaven only knows how much his ticket to America would cost. Yet I'm certain that as soon as the Doctor has the price of it he'll send him. He spoke of the lion and the leopard, too—says the big hunting animals should never be kept in confinement. I do wish we had some other man as well—somebody with good business sense—who could keep an eye on the Doctor's schemes."

"I quite agree with you," said Jip. "But I have great hopes of Matthew Mugg, myself. He isn't nearly such a fool as he looks."

"He's a very kind fellow," Swizzle put in. "Almost every time he meets me or Toby he pulls a bone or something out of his pocket and gives it to us."

"Oh, yes," said Jip. "That used to be his profession— cat's–meat–man, you know. He has a good heart. And I think, Dab–Dab, you'll find he has a pretty good business head, too. It was he who arranged about the next three towns we're going to. The Doctor didn't know how to book the circus ahead or where to go next or anything about touring a circus around the country. He consulted Matthew. And Mugg went off at once to the next town and found out when the fair week was usually held and arranged for fodder supply and renting a show ground and everything. And he's just crazy about the circus business. I've often heard him boasting to gipsies and the like along the road that he's the partner of John Dolittle, M. D.—the famous showman. He knows how to advertise, too—and that's important in this game. It was Matthew who got the Doctor to have those big posters printed. I hear they're already stuck up in every street in Tilmouth, our next town. Yes, I'm quite helpful about Matthew. He's a good man."

The Dolittle Circus was an entirely new kind of circus. Now that he had the control of things in his own hands the Doctor proceeded to bring about the reforms and changes that he had so often wished for in the days of Blossom's management.

It was, as Jip had said, a good thing that Matthew was there to keep an eye on the Doctor. Otherwise he would most likely have begun by letting his new ideas run away with him. Certainly the average circus–going public had never seen anything like his show before. For one thing, John Dolittle insisted on the strictest politeness from all attendants. For another, he would allow no form of misrepresentation, as he called it. Ordinarily, circus folk had often been accustomed to say that their shows were "the greatest on earth," that their animals were "the only ones in captivity"—or something similarly extravagant and exaggerated.

This the Doctor would not permit. He said he wanted everything advertised just as it was, in order that the public should not be misled or cheated into paying to see something which they didn't see. To this, at the beginning, Matthew Mugg objected. He said you could never get a good crowd unless you "played it up big." But he soon found that the Doctor was right. When the people got to realize that whatever was promised in the Dolittle advertisements would be actually provided, the new circus earned a reputation for honesty that brought people in a way that nothing else would.

Another thing that worried Matthew in the first days of the Doctor's management was his insistence on providing tea, free, for the public.

"Why, Doctor," he said, "you'll be ruined! You can't serve tea for thousands of people without charging them for it. This ain't a hotel—or a Widow's and Orphans' Home!

"Matthew," said the Doctor, "the people who come to visit my show are, in a way, my guests. Some of them come long distances— with babies to carry. Afternoon tea is a nice custom. I hate to go without it myself. It won't cost so much when we buy the tea and sugar by the hundredweight. Theodosia can make it."

So afternoon tea for all visitors became an institution. And shortly after another one was added: that of free packets of peppermints for the children. And what the Doctor prophesied came true. In one town where the Dolittle Circus crossed paths with another, a much bigger show, the Doctor's concern did twice the business that the other one did, because the people knew that they'd be given tea and treated honestly and politely.

"Free packets of peppermints for the children"

The Eighth Chapter The Dolittle Circus

It was six weeks before the show was due to appear in London. The first town to be visited on the way there was Tilmouth. And it was here that the Doctor once more got put in prison—but only for one night. This is how it came about.

The animals, as I have said, were, if anything even more pleased to exchange Blossom for the Doctor as a boss than were the human performers. And one of the first things that John Dolittle did, as soon as a little extra money was made, was to go round and ask all the animals if they had any complaints to make. Of course, there were plenty. To begin with, nearly every creature in the menagerie wanted his den re–painted. So the Doctor had all the cages done over, each in the colors that its owner preferred.

Not long after the Doctor had had the menagerie done up, he received another complaint. This, indeed, was one that he had often heard before. The lion and the leopard were weary of confinement. They longed to get out of their narrow cages and stretch their legs in freedom.

"Well, you know," said John Dolittle, 'myself, I don't approve of keeping you shut up at all. If I had my way I'd ship you back to Africa and let you go free in the jungle. But the trouble is the money. However, as soon as I get enough together I will attend to it."

"If we could only get out a few minutes each day," said the lion, looking wistfully over the Doctor's shoulder toward the rolling hills of the countryside, "it wouldn't be so bad."

"No," said the leopard, "that would make life bearable. Oh, I'm sick of the four walls of this wretched box!"

The tone of the leopard's voice was so pathetic and the lion's face so sad the Doctor felt that something just had to be done right away.

"Look here," he said, "if I let you out for a run every evening would you promise me something?"

"Anything," said the two together.

"Would you come back at the end of half an hour? Honestly?"

"We would."

"And would you promise solemnly not to eat my people?"

"On our word of honor."

"All right," said the Doctor. "Then every evening after the show is over I'll open your cages and you can run free for half an hour."

So this, too, like the afternoon tea and the children's peppermints, became a custom of the Dolittle circus. The menagerie animals were put upon their honor and allowed to run free every evening provided they came back of their own accord. It worked surprisingly well for quite a while. The show people soon realized that the animals were acting up to their promise and could be trusted not to molest anyone. And even Theodosia got used to the idea of meeting a lion or a leopard roaming through the enclosure after dark on his way back to his den when his evening run was over.

"It is quite proper," said the Doctor. "I don't know why I didn't think of it before. They work all day, the same as we do— being on show. They deserve a little freedom and playtime at night."

Of course, the animals, when they went beyond the circus fence, were careful to keep out of the way of people because they didn't want to scare them—and people didn't interest them anyway. They were, in fact, heartily sick of them, having them gazing and staring in at the cages all day. But one evening when the circus had moved to a new town a rather serious thing happened. Matthew came rushing to the Doctor's wagon about ten o'clock and said:

"Governor, the lion hasn't come back! I went round to lock up just now and found the cage empty. And it's more than an hour since I let him out."

"Good heavens!" cried the Doctor, jumping up and dashing off toward the menagerie with Matthew at his heels, "I wonder what's wrong. He certainly wouldn't have run away after giving me his promise. I hope no accident has happened to him."

On reaching the menagerie, the Doctor went to the leopard's cage and asked him if he knew where the lion was.

"I think he must have got lost, Doctor," said the leopard. "We started out together and went for a stroll across that moor to the eastward. But it was new country to us. We came to a stream and couldn't get across. He went up stream and I went down, looking for a shallow place where we could get over to the other side. I had no luck. The stream got wider and deeper the further I went along the bank. Then I heard the church clock strike and I realized it was time to be getting back. I expected to find the lion here when I got home. But he wasn't."

"You didn't meet any people?" the Doctor asked.

"Not a soul," said the leopard. "I passed a farm but I went round it to avoid scaring anyone. He'll find his way back. Don't worry."

The Doctor stayed up all that night waiting for the lion to return. He even went out into the country and hunted along the stream that the leopard had spoken of. But no trace of the missing animal could he found.

Morning came and still no lion. And the Doctor was very worried. However, the opening of the circus kept his mind occupied. The people came thronging in and good business claimed everyone's attention.

At tea time, as was his custom, John Dolittle acted as host to his visitors and Theodosia was kept running back and forth waiting on the many little tables crowded with holiday–makers in their Sunday clothes.

Suddenly, just as the Doctor was passing among the tables to offer a lady a dish of cakes, he spied Mr. Lion strolling into the circus through the main gate. At the moment everybody was busy eating and drinking, and the Doctor hoped that the lion, who was quietly making for the menagerie, would reach his den before he was seen by the guests. But, alas! a party, a farmer and his family, coming out of the side show, ran right into the lion before he got to the menagerie door. There was a scream from a farmer's wife who grabbed her children and ran. The farmer threw his walking stick at the lion and also ran. Then for a couple of minutes pandemonium reigned. Women shrieked, tables were overturned and finally some stupid person in the crowd fired a gun. The poor lion, thoroughly frightened, turned about and ran for his life.

The excitement now partly died down, but the people were far too upset to stay and enjoy the circus any further and very soon they all went off home and the enclosure was deserted.

So Mr. Lion, after his brief reappearance, was again missing; and the Doctor feared that now, terrified at his reception, he would be harder to find than ever.

John Dolittle was arranging search parties to go out and hunt when two policemen came to the circus and put him under arrest. He was charged, they told him, with keeping wild animals at large and endangering the public. Furthermore, the lion, it seemed, had broken into a chicken yard and eaten all the chicken. As the Doctor was marched through the town to the jail the owner of the chickens followed him, calling him names and telling him how much he owed him.

The Doctor spent the night in prison. But in the meantime the lion had taken refuge in the cellar of a bakery and neither the baker nor anybody else dared go down to him. Everybody in the house was scared to go to bed. Messages were sent to the circus to send someone to take the lion away. But the wily Matthew Mugg, although he knew the lion was easily handled by those who knew him, told the people that the Doctor was only one who dared go near him and they better hurry up and let him out of jail if they wanted the lion taken away.

So early the next morning they came and set the Doctor free. Then he went down into the cellar and talked to the lion.

"I'm fearfully sorry, Doctor," said he, "but I lose my way out on that moor. I wandered around all over the place. And it wasn't until the next day that I found my own tracks and made my way back to the circus. I tried to slip into the menagerie without being seen. But when that fool started firing a gun I got scared and ran for it."

"But the chickens?" said the Doctor. "I thought you promised me not to molest anything when you were out?"

"I only promised not to eat people," said the lion. "I had to eat something. I was starved to death after wandering around that moor all night. How much are they charging you for the chicken?"

"One pound, ten shillings and sixpence," said the Doctor. "Eleven at half a crown apiece."

"It's highway robbery," said the lion. "They were the toughest old things I ever tasted. And anyway I only ate nine."

"Well, in future," said the Doctor, "I think I had better accompany you on your walks."

Then he led the lion home. And the terrified townsfolk watched through the cracks of doors as the dread animal strolled down the street as John Dolittle's heels as meek and quiet as a lamb.

"He led the lion home"

And now that the Doctor could give the animals the kind of consideration he wished he really enjoyed the life himself a good deal. And poor Dab–Dab began to feel that her chance of getting him away from it, back to his own life at Puddleby, grew dimmer and more distant every day.

John Dolittle's chief occupation in his spare time was, as I have told you, thinking out new and interesting animal shows. And in doing this he always kept the children particularly in mind as an audience, and designed his plays and entertainments more for them than for the grown–ups. The success of the Talking Horse and the Puddleby Pantomime showed him that his knowledge of animal languages could be put to great use here. The snakes which he had bought from Fatima, for example, were later trained by him to give a little show of their own. Instead of a snake–charmer's tent with a stupid fat woman in it, pretending to be something that she wasn't, the Dolittle Circus had a side show where the snakes gave their own performance, entirely unaided by any person. To the tune of a music box they danced a very peculiar but graceful sort of dance. It was something like a mixture between a quadrille and a game of cat's cradle. On a little stage of their own they glided about on their tails in time to the music, bowing to their partners, doing the grand chain, looping into knots with one another, drilling like soldiers and doing a hundred fascinating things that people had never seen snakes do before.

"The Snakes' Quadrille"

Indeed, as time went on, the Dolittle Circus's animal side shows were almost without exception run independently by the animals themselves. There were a great number of them and each one was descriptive of that particular animal's special quality. The snakes' entertainment, for instance, was designed to show off their gracefulness; for, in John Dolittle's opinion, the snake was the most graceful creature in the world. The elephant, on the other hand, did feats of strength, instead of silly balancing tricks for which he wasn't suited.

"You don't want people in an animal performance," the Doctor said to Matthew one day. "Hercules and Hop and the acrobats, they're different. Those are shows, given by people, where the human performers are the whole thing. But what's the sense in seeing a stupid man in uniform driving a lion through hoops with a whip? People seem to think that animals have no ideas to express. If they're left to themselves they can give much better shows on their own, once they're told what kind of things amuse a human audience—especially in the funny shows. The animal sense of humor is far superior to the human. But people are too stupid to see the funniness of things that animals do to amuse one another. And in most cases I have to bring them down to our level—to have them make their style of jokes rather—er—crude and broad. Otherwise people mightn't understand them at all."

And so, you see, the Dolittle Circus was indeed quite different from any other. The Doctor's kind and hospitable treatment of all who came to see his show made it more like a sort of family gathering than a strictly business matter.

There were no rules, or hardly any. And if little boys wanted to see "behind the scenes," or to go into the elephant's stall and pet him, they were personally conducted wherever they wished to go. This alone gave the circus a quality quite individual. And whenever the wagon–train moved on its way, the children would follow it for miles along the road and for weeks after would talk of nothing but when it would come back again to visit their town. For children everywhere were beginning to regard the Dolittle Circus as something peculiarly their own.

THE END