After he had listened to the crabs for a while with no success, he put the fidgit into the tank and began to listen to that. I had to leave him at this moment to go and attend to some duties on the deck. But presently I heard him below shouting for me to come down again.
"Stubbins," he cried as soon as he saw me--"a most extraordinary thing-- Quite unbelievable--I'm not sure whether I'm dreaming--Can't believe my own senses. I--I--I--"
"Why, Doctor," I said, "what is it?--What's the matter?"
"The fidgit," he whispered, pointing with a trembling finger to the listening-tank in which the little round fish was still swimming quietly, "he talks English! And--and--and HE WHISTLES TUNES--English tunes!"
"Talks English!" I cried--"Whistles!--Why, it's impossible."
"It's a fact," said the Doctor, white in the face with excitement. "It's only a few words, scattered, with no particular sense to them-- all mixed up with his own language which I can't make out yet. But they're English words, unless there's something very wrong with my hearing-- And the tune he whistles, it's as plain as anything--always, the same tune. Now you listen and tell me what you make of it. Tell me everything you hear.
Don't miss a word."
I went to the glass tank upon the table while the Doctor grabbed a note-book and a pencil. Undoing my collar I stood upon the empty packing-case he had been using for a stand and put my right ear down under the water.
For some moments I detected nothing at all--except, with my dry ear, the heavy breathing of the Doctor as he waited, all stiff and anxious, for me to say something. At last from within the water, sounding like a child singing miles and miles away, I heard an unbelievably thin, small voice.
"Ah!" I said.
"What is it?" asked the Doctor in a hoarse, trembly whisper.