the next thing i must tell you about is the prize story competition: the fame of the puddleby fireside-circle, where the doctor had amused his pets with so many interesting tales, had become quite a famous institution. too-too had gossiped about it; gub-gub, jip and the white mouse had boasted of it. (you see, they were always proud that they could say they were part of the great man's regular household.) and before long, through this new post office of their own, creatures all over the world were speaking of it and discussing it by letter. next thing, the doctor began to receive requests for stories by mail. he had become equally famous as an animal doctor, an animal educator and an animal author.

from the far north letters came in by the dozen from polar bears and walruses and foxes asking that he send them some light entertaining reading as well as his medical pamphlets and books of etiquette. the winter nights (weeks and weeks long up there) grew frightfully monotonous, they said, after their own supply of stories had run out—because you couldn't possibly sleep all the time and something had to be done for amusement on the lonely ice-floes and in the dens and lairs beneath the blizzard-swept snow. for some time the doctor was kept so busy with more serious things that he was unable to attend to it. but he kept it in mind until he should be able to think out the best way of dealing with the problem.

now his pets, after the post office work got sort of settled and regular, often found it somewhat hard to amuse themselves in the evenings. one night they were all sitting around on the veranda of the houseboat wondering what game they could play when jip suddenly said:

"i know what we can do—let's get the doctor to tell us a story."

"oh, you've heard all my stories," said the doctor. "why don't you play hunt-the-slipper?"

"the houseboat isn't big enough," said dab-dab. "last time we played it gub-gub got stuck by the pushmi-pullyu's horns. you've got plenty of stories. tell us one, doctor—just a short one."

"well, but what shall i tell you a story about?" asked john dolittle.

"about a turnip field," said gub-gub.

"no, that won't do," said jip. "doctor, why don't you do what you did sometimes by the fire in puddleby—turn your pockets out upon the table till you come to something that reminds you of a story—you remember?"

"all right," said the doctor. "but——"

and then an idea came to him.

"look here," he said: "you know i've been asked for stories by mail. the creatures around the north pole wanted some light reading for the long winter nights. i'm going to start an animals' magazine for them. i'm calling it the arctic monthly. it will be sent by mail and be distributed by the nova zembla branch office. so far, so good. but the great problem is how to get sufficient stories and pictures and articles and things to fill a monthly magazine—no easy matter. now listen, if i tell you animals a story to-night, you'll have to do something to help me with my new magazine. every night when you want to amuse yourselves we'll take it in turns to tell a story. that will give us seven stories right away. there will be only one story printed each month—the rest of the magazine will be news of the day, a medical advice column, a babies' and mothers' page and odds and ends. then we'll have a prize story competition. the readers shall judge which is the best; and when they write to us here and tell us, we'll give the prize to the winner. what do you say?"

"what a splendid idea!" cried gub-gub. "i'll tell my story to-morrow night. i know a good one. now go ahead, doctor."

then john dolittle started turning his trousers pockets out onto the table to try and find something that reminded him of a story. it was certainly a wonderful collection of objects that he brought forth. there were pieces of string and pieces of wire, stub ends of pencils, pocket-knives with the blades broken, coat buttons, boot buttons, a magnifying glass, a compass and a corkscrew.

"there doesn't seem to be anything very hopeful there," said the doctor.

"try in your waistcoat pockets," said too-too. "they were always the most interesting. you haven't turned them out since you left puddleby. there must be lots in them."

so the doctor turned out his waistcoat pockets. these brought forth two watches (one that went and one that didn't), a measuring tape, a piece of cobbler's wax, a penny with a hole through it and a clinical thermometer.

"what's that?" asked gub-gub, pointing to the thermometer.

"that's for taking people's temperature with," said the doctor. "oh, that reminds me——"

"of a story?" cried too-too.

"i knew it would," said jip. "a thing like that must have a story to it. what's the name of the story, doctor?"

"well," said the doctor, settling himself back in his chair, "i think i'll call this story 'the invalids' strike.'"

"what's a strike?" asked gub-gub.

"and what on earth is an invalid?" cried the pushmi-pullyu.

"a strike," said the doctor, "is when people stop doing their own particular work in order to get somebody else to give them what they want. and an invalid—well, an invalid is a person who is always—er, more or less—ill."

"but what kind of work is invalids' work?" asked the white mouse.

"their work is—er, staying—ill," said the doctor. "stop asking questions or i'll never get this story started."

"wait a minute," said gub-gub. "my foot's gone to sleep."

"oh, bother your feet!" cried dab-dab. "let the doctor get on with his story."

"is it a good story?" asked gub-gub.

"well," said the doctor, "i'll tell it, and then you can decide for yourself. stop fidgeting, now, and let me begin. it's getting late."