Freddy and the Men from Mars Read online

  The saucer landed in an open space behind the big tent, unobserved by anybody but Mr. Hercules, who was practicing juggling ten-pound cannon balls. He just glanced at it. “Guess ’Restes huz got one o’ thum new sport cars,” he said, and went on juggling. Even when the Martians trooped over to the sideshow tent, followed by the Beans, he paid no special attention.

  Although it was early, a line had already formed before the tent containing Mr. Garble’s imitation Martians. It melted away quickly when the real Martians approached. Even though they were accompanied by four humans, walking along hand in hand with them, very few people seemed interested in getting a closer look at them.

  Mr. Garble was at the door, taking in the admission money. He turned pale when the spider-men came up, holding out the half-dollars with which Mr. Bean had provided them. But though his teeth chattered, he took the money.

  “These are real Martians, Mr. Garble,” Mrs. Bean explained. “They seem to think that the ones you’ve been exhibiting aren’t just what you claim they are.”

  “And let me tell you, young Herbert,” added Mrs. Peppercorn, “if they ain’t—well, just look at ’em. Four hands apiece they’ve got, and seven fingers on each hand. That’s fine for playing duets with themselves on the piano, and it’s also fine for tearing any party or parties they’re kind of disappointed in into small pieces. Why, Herbert, where you goin’?” For the last they saw of Mr. Garble was his heels disappearing around the corner of the tent.

  So the Martians filed in. The Horribles, disguised in the red suits, were sitting around the table, having a breakfast of lettuce leaves. When they saw the spider-men they jumped up and backed off into a corner, and Jinx arched his back and spat. But then they saw the Beans and Mrs. Peppercorn, and they relaxed and came forward. So when Mrs. Bean had explained about the Martians, Jinx explained about the Horribles. “It was Freddy’s plan,” he said, “to protect Mr. Boomschmidt from being called a faker. And by the way, where is Freddy?”

  Nobody knew, though the first part of an answer was presently given them by the sheriff and Red Mike, who appeared in the tent door. They, too, were looking for Freddy. They were naturally much startled by the spider-men, but shook hands with them politely. “Boy, oh boy!” Mike exclaimed. “Four hands and twenty-eight fingers! What burglars I could make of ’em! Or pickpockets! Shake hands with a man with one hand, brush dust off his shoulder with another, and all the time be sliding his watch out of one pocket and his wallet out of another with the other two hands. D’you suppose, sheriff, after I got through here, I could maybe … But no, I guess it wouldn’t do. All those fingers, though; what a waste!”

  The Martians seemed very much amused by the attempt of Mr. Garble to imagine what real Martians must look like, and they fizzed with their queer laughter and insisted on going into the cage and trying out the chairs and beds and the various other furnishings. When Mr. Webb had told them the whole story, how Freddy had replaced the rats with his own friends, the rabbits, they laughed harder than ever, and shook hands with the Horribles and whacked them on the back and made a great fuss over them. So then the Horribles did their dance for them, and chanted:

  “We are the Horrible Six.

  We’ll give you slaps, pinches, and kicks.

  We’re mean and malicious,

  We’re really quite vicious,

  And if you complain of our tricks

  We’ll bust all your windows with bricks.

  We’ll watch; when we see that you’ve gone

  To the movies, we’ll dig up your lawn,

  We’ll bite off the heads

  Of the flowers in your beds;

  We’ll get in the house and we’ll soap all the treads

  Of the stairs, and we’ll tear all the carpets to shreds.

  And when you come back from the show

  We’ll be up in the attic, and oh!

  What queer noises you’ll hear overhead

  As soon as you get into bed!

  You’ll hear thumps on the floor, you’ll hear squeaks in the wall;

  Outside of your door in the dark upstairs hall

  Something enormous will slither and crawl—

  Your hair will stand up on your head!

  Beware! Do not mix

  With the Horrible Six,

  Or you’ll be in a terrible fix!”

  “Well,” said the sheriff, “this is all very high-class entertainment, but Mike and me, we’ve got to go up to Mrs. Underdunk’s and rescue those chickens.”

  When this had been explained to the Martians, they said they’d like to go along. But the sheriff was doubtful. “I dunno,” he said. “I suppose I could swear ’em in as deputies. Although—”

  A startled “Woof!” from the tent door made him turn, and there stood Leo, staring with amazement at the spider-men. “Well, file my toenails!” he exclaimed. “Golly, Uncle Ajax was telling me the truth about the goblins! Only time he ever did, I’ll wager. But where are the caps with red tassels? Where’d you capture ’em, sheriff?”

  The sheriff explained.

  “You mean,” said the lion, “that they’re free to come out of that cage?” He shook his head doubtfully. “Well then, you’ll excuse me if I just run along.” He backed out.

  But Jinx called after him. “Come back, Leo. These guys are friends. And we need your help.”

  From outside, Leo’s voice replied: “You’re going to need it worse before long or I miss my guess. So long, cat. I’ll be seeing you. Or not, as the case may be.” They heard the thump of his big paws as he trotted off.

  The sheriff finally consented to let the Martians join the rescue party. The Horribles wanted to go too, but Jinx said they’d have to stay; they’d be letting Mr. Boomschmidt down if they left the Martian cage empty. So they got Bill Wonks to stand at the door and take admissions, and started off, taking Jinx and Mr. Hercules along with them. The Beans and Mrs. Peppercorn and Uncle Ben got back into the saucer, taking Squeak-squeak with them to drive them back to the farm and see if they could find Freddy.

  It was just about this time that Mr. Garble was sitting at breakfast in the dining room of the Underdunk house. His sister was breakfasting upstairs in bed. It was a large gloomy room, and dozens of Underdunk ancestors stared down at Mr. Garble from the walls. Their stares—disapproving or ferocious or disgusted—always took away his appetite. But this morning he had no appetite anyway. He just sat and let his oatmeal get cold and glared back at them.

  Then the chauffeur came in. He had his cap in his hand and his nose was swelled to about twice its normal size and he said. “If you’re ready to go, sir, I think the Tushville express office will be open now.”

  So Mr. Garble got up, and they went down cellar. A large crate stood on the floor. It had three tags on it. One said: “Mr. Orville P. Garble, Twin Buttes, Montana.” Another said: “Livestock. Rush. Water daily.” The third said: “Fragile. Do not crush.” And inside the crate was Freddy.

  And they were just lifting the crate to carry it up the cellar stairs to the station wagon, when from somewhere in the upper part of the house came a long, terrible shriek.

  They set the crate down again. And there came another even more terrible scream, which made the hair on the back of Mr. Garble’s neck stand right up straight.

  The chauffeur, however, didn’t seem greatly disturbed. “Must be something wrong,” he said. “Maybe you better go up and see.”

  Mr. Garble pulled his pistol from his pocket. “You’re going, too,” he said. “Ahead of me,” he added.

  Smith looked at the pistol. “Is that an order?” he asked.

  “Go on,” said Mr. Garble, poking the pistol at him. But Smith whirled suddenly, knocked the pistol from Mr. Garble’s hand, and then dove for it. He was up in a second. And as a third and even more agonized screech rang through the house: “No,” he said. “You’re going. And alone.”

  Mr. Garble looked at the pistol and the pistol looked back at him with its one black eye. Then he went.


  CHAPTER

  16

  The rescue party’s plan of campaign had been organized by the sheriff. He and Mike would go right up on the front porch and pound on the door and demand admission. If it was refused, Mike had a hammer with which he would bang on the lock to snap it open. Mr. Hercules would guard the back door and capture anybody who tried to escape. The Martians and Jinx would remain concealed in the shrubbery about the house; they would seize any opportunity to get inside that presented itself.

  But either the Martians didn’t understand the plan, or their enthusiasm got the better of them, for before the sheriff and Mike were halfway up the front walk they made a rush for the house. They went up the side just like spiders, and popped in—one, two, three, four, five—an open window in the second story. And there was Mrs. Underdunk sitting up in bed with a breakfast tray on her lap, just taking the first sip of her morning coffee.

  That was when she gave her first scream, and you can hardly blame her. Some people scream when they see just a small spider; but here were spider-men two feet high climbing in her bedroom window. So she screamed and her arm jerked up and the coffee cup flew up in the air and landed on the black dressing gown with gold dragons on it, and the tray went on the floor with a crash, and Mrs. Underdunk burrowed down under the bedclothes as far as she could go.

  Now Martians are very mild and good tempered people, in spite of their odd appearance, and they wouldn’t have hurt Mrs. Underdunk for worlds. But, as they told Mr. Webb afterwards, when she dove under the bedclothes, they thought her behavior strange. They didn’t, of course, realize how frightening their appearance was to her, because it naturally wasn’t in the least frightening to them. They thought maybe she was playing some childish game—peek-a-boo, perhaps. They had perched in a row on the foot of the bed. And Two-clicks said: “Well, if this silly creature wants to play, maybe we ought to play with her.” So they jumped down on the bed and began pulling at the covers. And pretty soon they got her head out, and that was when she gave the second scream.

  The bed had a very soft and springy mattress, and when the Martians jumped down on it, they bounced. This was something new to them, because of course they don’t have much upholstered furniture on Mars. So they kept on jumping and bouncing around and squeaking with delight. To Mrs. Underdunk it probably seemed much the sort of dance that the Indians performed around the victim at the stake. So she let out her third and most terrible shriek, and burrowed down among the bedclothes again.

  Two-squeaks said: “This seems to me rather a silly game. It’s all very well to be pleasant to these earth-people, but for goodness’ sake let’s act a little more grown-up. Let’s go downstairs and see how the rescue is getting on.” So they jumped off the bed and went out into the hall and started down the stairs. And met Mr. Garble coming up.

  Mr. Garble was a very dishonest man, but he was not especially cowardly. It is easy to criticize his behavior at this point, but it seems hardly fair. For to start up the stairs in your own house and meet five spider-men coming down is enough to unhinge anybody. Mr. Garble gave a shriek which was louder than all three of his sister’s put together. He made one jump to the foot of the stairs. The front door, he knew, was unlocked, and he started for it, but just as he took hold of the knob he saw the figures of Mike and the sheriff through the glass. He turned and dashed through hall and kitchen to the back door.

  Mr. Hercules hadn’t understood his instructions very well either. He saw no point in waiting outside to grab anybody that might come out. Much better, he thought, to go in and get them. The back door was locked, so he just put one big hand against it and shoved. There was a ripping sound as lock and hinges gave way, and the door fell inward with a bang. And there was Mr. Garble, sprinting along the hall towards it.

  It didn’t occur to Mr. Hercules that Mr. Garble, whom he knew, was a person who should be stopped. “Hullo, Muster Garble,” he said. “Coming out?” And stood politely aside. And Mr. Garble, who was no fool, said: “Thank you, Herc,” and sprinted right on past the conservatory and the garage and hurdled the hedge and vanished.

  At the front door, after his ringing and pounding got no answer, Mike took his hammer and struck a sharp blow just above the lock. Then he turned the knob and opened the door. “See how easy ’tis?” he said proudly. “Just one tap and she flies open. But you have to know just where to hit her.” The sheriff, who knew that the door hadn’t been locked at all, and indeed was even slightly ajar, said nothing, for he didn’t want to hurt Mike’s feelings. A minute later they were down cellar knocking the slats off Freddy’s crate.

  As soon as Freddy was free, the three released Mrs. Hapgood and the two chickens, and then went upstairs to the back door, where a lot of squeaking was going on. They found Mr. Hercules entertaining the Martians by tossing them in the air and catching them again. They curled up their arms and legs just as a spider does, so that they were like black balls, and then he began juggling three at a time. They squeaked with delight.

  “Seen Garble, Herc?” the sheriff asked.

  “Ol’ Moosiludge, huh?” said Mr. Hercules. “Yuh, he come out. Chasin’ somebody, Uh guess. Went off in thut direction.” He pointed.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” said the sheriff. “Why didn’t you stop him? That’s what we told you to do.”

  “Stop ol’ Moosiludge Garble?” Mr. Hercules was puzzled. “Yuh didn’t say nothin’ about stopping him. Stop anybody, yuh said. He ain’t anybody, he’s ol’ Moosiludge.” He began to laugh. “Moosiludge!” he said. “Uh, uh, uh!”

  While this was going on, Freddy was trying to calm Mrs. Hapgood and Little Broiler, who were frightened by the appearance of the Martians. Chiquita was not scared; she even asked Mr. Hercules to throw her up in the air, too. But Mrs. Hapgood fluttered and clucked and gave little squawks of alarm, and she got Broiler to follow her into a hidden place under a hedge, where she tucked the weeping little creature out of sight under her wing.

  Freddy stood by the hedge and said: “These people won’t hurt you, madam. They came to rescue you.”

  But Mrs. Hapgood just kept giving her hysterical yelps. “Oh! Oh! Oh, Broiler, be very still; perhaps they won’t see us.”

  “They can hear you a mile off,” said Jinx, coming up. “If they’d wanted to eat you, you’d be nothing but a couple of claws and a few feathers floating down the wind by this time. Come on, Broiler, come out here—we want to take you home.”

  “He can’t hear you,” said Chiquita. “He’s under her wing. She was always trying to get us under her wings. I kept telling her that we were too old for that silly kid stuff, but you can’t tell her anything.”

  The sheriff came over to them. “Is that the hen that can whistle ‘Dixie’?” he asked. And when Freddy said it was, he said: “I understand Garble paid quite a lot of money for her. Like to see her.”

  “Your wish is my command,” said Jinx with a grin, and he dived under the hedge where there was a lot of squawking for a minute, and then he came out dragging Mrs. Hapgood by her tailfeathers. Little Broiler followed, peeping miserably.

  He came out dragging Mrs. Hapgood by her tailfeathers.

  The sheriff took the hen up and looked at her. “Not much to look at,” he said. “Eh, Mike?”

  “You wouldn’t dare say such a thing if the late Mr. Hapgood was alive,” said the hen huffily. “He’d peck your eyes out.”

  “Just as well he’s not still with us, then,” said the sheriff. “Well, ma’am, what are we going to do with you? We’ll take these two chickens back home, but how about you? You’re Garble’s property in the eyes of the law, and as I’m the law here in Centerboro, I can’t very well take you away from him.”

  “My childhood home is Hubbersburg, West Virginia, but I do not wish to return there,” said the hen, who had become somewhat calmer. “My talents were never appreciated there. Mr. Garble, however, believed that there was a great future before me if I could appear on a wider stage than that of our local Odd Fellows�
� Hall. He has promised me a star part in his circus.”

  “It ain’t a very big circus,” Jinx remarked.

  “It will be,” said Mrs. Hapgood confidently, “as soon as the public get acquainted with my repertoire.”

  The sheriff spoke behind his hand to Freddy. “What’s that?”

  “Your repertoire is all the tunes you can play,” said the pig. “Right now I guess it’s just ‘Dixie.’”

  “Kind of like a bill of fare with just pickled onions on it,” said the sheriff.

  Mrs. Hapgood had of course heard this. “‘Dixie’ is just the beginning. I have already begun practicing others. I am now working on ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’ A very difficult composition, requiring a high degree of skill. If you would care to—”

  “Thank you,” said Freddy hastily, “I’m afraid we haven’t time. We must first decide what is to be done with you. You don’t want to go back to your home—”

  “No. It will perhaps be better if I stay here. I am not accustomed to being confined in a cellar. The damp is bad for my voice, and there is very little social life. Yet I have every confidence that the excellent Garble, though he knows little about music himself, will give me my chance. He—”

  “Just a minute,” Jinx interrupted, and drew Freddy aside. “If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “the excellent Garble is up in that big pine tree over in the other block, watching us. If we want to capture him—”

  “I don’t, specially,” Freddy said. “Not publicly. But I’ve got an idea. The lot of us had better go back to the circus grounds. Let him see us go, and take that musical hen with us. Then we can circle back. Come here a minute, you and Mike, sheriff. “Listen.” He outlined his plan.

  The sheriff shook his head. “ ’Tain’t legal.”

  “Oh, phooey!” said Jinx. “It’s fun, isn’t it? And justice, too. Well, go on back to your old jail and be legal, then. If you don’t see it happen, you won’t know anything about it.”