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The Doctor carried the listening-tank to a porthole, opened it and emptied the tank into the sea. "Good-bye!" he murmured as a faint splash reached us from without. I dropped my pencil on the table and leaned back with a sigh. My fingers were so stiff with writers' cramp that I felt as though I should never be able to open my hand again. But I, at least, had had a night's sleep.
The Doctor was still standing at the listening-tank, looking as tired as an owl and dreadfully wet. But on his face there was a proud and happy smile. "Stubbins," he said as soon as he saw me stir, "I've done it. I've got the key to the fidgit's language. It's a frightfully difficult language quite different from anything I ever heard. The only thing it reminds me of slightly is ancient Hebrew.
He fished several of these crabs up with a net and put them in his listening-tank to see if he could understand them. Among the crabs he also caught a strange-looking, chubby, little fish which he told me was called a Silver Fidgit. 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.
"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.
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