Chapter 11 Doctor Dolittle's Zoo by Hugh Lofting
THE RAT AND MOUSE CLUB
Without doubt the Rat and Mouse Club was the only building of its kind in the world. At the beginning the clubhouse had been no more than two and a half feet high; but as the list of members had been enlarged, first from fifty to three hundred, and then from three hundred to five thousand, it became necessary to enlarge the premises considerably.
At the time when the Doctor and I were invited to attend the Mooniversary Dinner the building was about the height of a man and just about as broad—and as long—as it was high. The architecture was very unusual. In shape the clubhouse was rather like a large bee-hive, with a great number of tiny doors. It was fourteen stories high. The upper floors were reached by outside stair-cases, in the manner of Italian houses. In the center of the building, inside, there was a large chamber called The Assembly Room which ran the entire height of the structure from ground-floor to roof. Ordinarily this was used for concerts, theatricals and for the general meetings of the club when all the members came together to vote on some new proposal or to celebrate birthdays or occasions of importance. The whole thing was thus a sort of thick hollow dome, in the shell of which were the living rooms, furnished apartments, private dining-saloons, committee-rooms, etc.
The entrances were all of course very small—just big enough for a rat to pass through. But for this special occasion the white mouse had got the badgers to dig a tunnel down under the foundations through which the Doctor and I could reach the Assembly Room inside.
When we arrived at the mouth of this tunnel we found the white mouse and a regular committee on hand to greet us. Moreover, every doorway, all the way up the building, was thronged with rat and mouse faces waiting to witness the great man's arrival. After the white mouse, as president of the club, had made a short speech of welcome, we began the descent of the tunnel.
“Be careful how you go, Doctor,” I said. “If we bump the top of the tunnel with our backs we're liable to throw the whole building over.”
Without mishap we reached the Assembly Room where there was just about space enough for the two of us to stand upright, very close together. The white mouse said he wanted to show the Doctor over the clubhouse. But of course as none of the rooms, except the one in which we were standing, was big enough for a man to get into, being “shown over” the building consisted of standing where he was and peering through the tiny holes called doors. Some of the rooms were along passages; and one could not see into them direct from the Assembly Room. But to provide for this the white mouse had got me to bring the Doctor's dentist's mirror, so he could poke it down the passages and see into the rooms around the corners, the same as he would look at the back of a person's tooth.
John Dolittle was tremendously interested in examining the tiny rooms which these highly civilized rats and mice had designed, set out and furnished for themselves. For this building with all it contained was (excepting the few things which I and Bumpo had done for them) entirely their own work. The Chief Mouse Architect—he was also the stone-mason—was on hand and he took great pride in pointing out to the distinguished visitor the whys and the wherefores of all the details of design.
While the Doctor was poking round among the passages and holes with his tooth-mirror he suddenly got quite excited.
“Why, Stubbins,” he cried, “come and look here. I don't know whether I'm dreaming or not. But isn't that a human face I see down there. Look in the mirror. It reminds me of myself.”
I looked into the mirror. Then I laughed.
“No wonder it reminds you of yourself, Doctor,” I said. “It is yourself. That's the missing miniature of John Dolittle as a young man.”
At this moment I heard the white mouse, who had left us for a moment, scolding the architect in whispers behind the Doctor's back.
“Didn't I tell you,” said he furiously, “to miss the Committee Room and show the Doctor the Ladies' Lounge instead?—Blockhead! Now we'll lose our best painting.”
“But how did the miniature get here?” asked John Dolittle.
“Well,” said the white mouse, “we didn't exactly steal it, Doctor. It was the Prison Rat's idea—he's one of the members, has always lived in jails, sort of an unscrupulous customer but has a great sense of humor and knows no end of interesting stories, crime stories.—Well, as I was saying, it was his idea. We were having a meeting about the lay-out of the new Committee Room and how it should be furnished and decorated. You see, although it's small, it is in a way the most important room in the club. All the big decisions are made there. And some one got up and said we ought to have a picture on the wall over the president's chair. Then the Church Mouse arose and said, 'Brethren,' says he, 'I think we should have a motto there, some message of good counsel, like Love One Another.' 'Well, I don't,' said the Prison Rat, short like. 'We can love one another all we want without boasting about it or writing it up on the wall.' Then the Railway Rat gets up and says, 'No, we ought to have a picture there. We don't want any sloppy mottoes. We want something cheerful. Let's put up one of the comic pictures out of Cellar Life.' At that the Prison Rat gets up again and says, 'I believe in being light-hearted, but I think a comic picture is hardly the thing—not—er—dignified enough for our Committee Room. What we ought to have is a portrait of the founder of our club, Doctor John Dolittle—and I know where I can get one, the right size to fit that place.' So the motion was carried—and so was the picture, by the Prison Rat who went up to your house that very night and—er—borrowed it off the mantelpiece in your waiting-room. Will you want to take it away again, Doctor?”
“No, I don't suppose so,” said John Dolittle, smiling. “It looks very well where it is. And it is quite a compliment that you want to keep it there. I will gladly present it to the club, provided you will take care of it. But you had better not let Dab-Dab know.”
“You may be sure we won't,” said the white mouse. “And now, Doctor, if you and Tommy will take your seats I will call in the members who98 are all waiting for the signal to assemble. We had to keep the hall clear till you got seated because, as you will see for yourself, there isn't very much room.”
Thereupon the Doctor and I sort of folded ourselves up and sat down in the cramped space to this strangest banquet table that ever was laid. Our chairs were empty biscuit-tins borrowed from the Home for Cross-Bred Dogs. The table was egg-shaped, about three feet across and five feet long. The dishes, tiny little messes of cheese, nuts, dried fish, fried bread-crumbs, apple-seeds, the kernels of prune-stones, etc., were all gathered in the center of the table, leaving a large outside ring clear for the diners to sit on. For in Mousetown one always sat, or stood, on the table at mealtimes, even in the best society.
As soon as we were seated the white mouse gave a signal somewhere and then a very curious thing happened: hundreds and thousands of rats and mice suddenly poured out of holes all around us squeaking and squealing with glee.
“You must excuse them, Doctor,” whispered the president, as a dozen rats ran around John Dolittle's collar and down his sleeve on to the table. “Their manners are not usually so atrocious. I expected a rush for the places nearest to you—it is a great honor for them, you know, they want to boast that they sat beside you—that's why I kept them out till you were seated. Every single member of the club bought a ticket for the dinner—five thousand, you see, as well as some extra guests from out of town. So you mustn't mind a little crowding.”