Chapter 21 Doctor Dolittle's Zoo by Hugh Lofting
A RAT'S PILGRIMAGE
“Well, my search indeed took me to strange places and brought me into touch with queer folk. I suppose I must have visited a good two dozen jails in all. I got to know a lot of prisoners, all kinds: political prisoners, as they were called, that is, people who had quarreled with the Government; pickpockets; coiners, makers of bad money; dog thieves; card sharps; men who had killed their fellow-men. It was quite interesting in a way—though most of it was pretty sad.
“They were all—or nearly all—anxious to make my acquaintance. And that was the first time that I discovered that, generally speaking, it is only in prison Men want to make friends of rats. Rather strange. I suppose it is because they are lonely and miserable in prison. All other places those same men would throw a brick at a rat, make a wry face and say, 'Ooh! The brute!' But in prison they would make a friend of him—yes, in prison, where they have no friends. My artist, on the other hand, had been kind to me when he was free. That was the difference, to my way of thinking, between him and other people. And I made up my mind harder than ever to keep on hunting till I found him.
“Of course in my wanderings I also made the acquaintance of many other regular prison rats. And them I questioned always, hoping they might be able to give me some clue as to where my man had been taken. Some of them thought I was a fool to keep on searching for him.
“'Oh,' they said, 'he has forgotten about you long ago. Like as not, he won't know you when he sees you. If he wanted to make pets of rats there are always lots of them in every prison. And anyway, never trust a man. Men are the sworn enemies of rats.'
“But all I answered was, 'He is in trouble and I want to find him. He was kind to me once—when I was in difficulties. Such things I don't forget.'
“One of the prison rats I met suggested I go back to the studio and wait till some one came who might be connected with the man I was seeking. Then by tracking him when he left, I might be led to the prison where the artist had been taken. I thought the idea was a good one and I acted on it. I went back to my old home and waited. About a week later the philosopher called. I watched him like a cat. He gathered some things together—clothes and books—wrapped them in a bundle and started away on foot.
“I followed. Luckily it was evening and the darkness gave me some chance of keeping in touch without being seen. It isn't so hard for a dog to follow a man through a town; but it is a very different matter for a rat.
“Well, in spite of several cats who tried to chase me off the trail I stuck to the old philosopher for a full half-hour.
“And then good luck deserted me—and him, too, poor fellow. He was run over at a street corner—a frightened horse. It was all done and finished so quickly there was hardly any telling how it happened. At first I thought the old man was killed. But he wasn't. Nevertheless he was badly enough hurt to make it necessary to call an ambulance and take him off to a hospital.
“So there went that hope. As I crouched in the shadow of a doorway and watched them taking him away, I realized with a sinking heart that not only was I losing my one clue, but my friend, the artist, was also losing the only other being in the world who would be likely to help him.
“Just the same, I set off on my hunt once more, more determined on this account than ever that I would find him—if I spent the rest of my life in doing it.
“Then for many weeks my pilgrimage continued without anything of importance happening. I went patiently from jail to jail, only staying in each one long enough to make sure that he wasn't there. After a while I got to do it more quickly than I had at the beginning. But it wasn't easy. You see, in most jails there were a great number of cells; and the first thing I did when I came to a new prison was to find out how many cells there were and how many of them were occupied. Then I had to discover some way of getting into each one in turn. If I couldn't get in—some of the newer jails were pretty hard even for a rat to get in or out of—I had to hang around somewhere till the prisoner was brought out for exercise so I could get a look at his face. And, because in some cases the prisoners were brought out very seldom, this took a long time.
“Well, after two or three months I began to get somewhat discouraged, I must admit. However, I did not give up hope. Something told me, in spite of what the rats had said, that I was going to find him and that I was going to be of help to him.
“Now there was a certain tune he had been in the habit of whistling around the studio when at work. And one day I had come to a new jail and looked at the prisoners in all the cells—all but one. This I couldn't find a way into; and the prisoner never seemed to get brought out. For nearly a week I had hung around that jail for the sake of that one cell alone, hoping a chance would come for me to see who was in there.
“At the end of the week I began seriously thinking of moving on to the next jail. After all it did not seem worthwhile for me to stay so long in one prison just on account of a single cell, when there were so many other jails yet to be visited. Still, I didn't quite like to go until I had made sure.
“And I'm glad I didn't. For that same night, as I hung around on watch outside the door, I heard—at last—the familiar whistle, his favorite tune. After nearly three months' search I had run him down! My, didn't I feel pleased and proud!
“I set to work now with a lighter heart to the business of getting into that cell. So anxious was I to see him, that I took a fearful big chance. I decided to try and slip in with the warder who brought him his breakfast in the morning. This was pretty risky, because, as some of you may know, prison cells have precious little furniture that a rat can hide behind.
“Nevertheless I managed it. I stood ready in the shadow outside the door; and when the warder came along with the breakfast I slid in close behind his heels without being noticed. Then choosing the right moment, just as he was laying down the food, I nipped across under the prison cot and waited till he went out again, locking the door behind him. Then I came boldly forth from my hiding place and showed myself.
“'Hulloa!' said the artist. 'Why, you look194 cheeky and brazen enough to be my friend Macchiavelli.'
“And then:
“'By George!' he added in a curious whisper. 'It is Macchiavelli! I know him by that limp!'
“He looked thin and pale. But he seemed just as philosophical and just as ready to say funny, crazy, unexpected things as ever. He was really overjoyed to see me. He picked me up and patted me like a pet poodle.
“'My first visitor!' he kept saying—'My only visitor, in fact. Macchiavelli!—Good old Mack!'
“He invited me to share his breakfast with him, making apologies for the poorness of the fare.
“But the first thing I wanted to do, now that I knew where he was, was to find a way by which I could come in and go out of that cell with more or less safety. I looked around the walls and the floor, but there was no trace of a hole anywhere—and no chance of making any in the new, well-cemented stonework. Then I looked up at the little window, high in the wall. And that gave me an idea.
“I felt pretty sure that I could gain the sill of this window by scrambling up the rough stonework inside. I tried it. He stood below watching me climb, really terrified that I might fall and break my neck. From the sill I found that the window could also be reached from the outside by means of a rainwater pipe which ran down the building near it.
“As soon as I got out I hunted up one of the rats who lived in the jail and questioned him. Also—I have told you that I was pretty good at understanding Man Talk—I listened at every opportunity I got to the conversations of the warders and attendants. And from what I could gather I came to the conclusion that my friend was soon to be transported, that is, sent away to serve a long term of imprisonment and labor in foreign parts. Exactly when he was to be taken I could not find out for certain. But I had a feeling that it was to be soon and that there was no time to lose.
“The next thing was to find out what my friend needed for escape. I consulted a very old rat who had lived in prisons all his life and seen several men escape. And he told me that the most important thing was a file to saw window-bars with. So a file, I determined, my man should have without delay. Now the jail had a workshop in it where some of the prisoners were put to making things. But the men were always examined before they left the workshop to make sure they took no tools away to their cells. It didn't take me long to find my way into that workshop and pick out a nice sharp file—a small one that I could easily carry.
“In the middle of the night I revisited my friend—entering by way of the rainwater pipe and the window—and found him asleep. I woke him up by laying the file on his nose. At first he didn't know what to make of it. But when he realized what the piece of cold metal was that I had laid on his face he got up and set quietly to work at once.
“Well, that's about the end of my story. It took him two nights to cut through the bar; and I had to bring him a fresh file to replace the old one which was worn smooth. He got out of the window about midnight on the second night. No one saw him leave. Luck was with him and the sentry at the outside wall was kind of drowsy. He got clean away and left the country before they found him. I never saw him again. My assistance had only just got there in time though. For when they came in on the third morning and found his cell empty, the prison van was already drawn up outside the gates of the jail waiting to take him to the ship.”