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
