Freddy Rides Again Read online

  Billy was delighted with the outfit, and as they cantered down the road towards town, he talked excitedly about how they could ride together and practice shooting and roping, and the games they could play. “Only Dad,” he said thoughtfully—“he maybe won’t like it. He thinks this cowboy stuff is silly.”

  “I don’t see that it’s any sillier than chasing foxes all over the landscape,” said Freddy. “But I expect he won’t mind so much—he wants you to have a good time.”

  Billy said doubtfully that he guessed so.

  With his shiny boots and well-cut breeches he seemed to have laid aside all the arrogance and contempt that he had shown towards the animals. Freddy began to think that his experiment was a success.

  On the outskirts of town, Freddy pulled up. “You go in to the Busy Bee and buy what you need,” he said. “I’d better wait; I don’t want to meet the sheriff. Meet you here in an hour.”

  So Billy rode on. But as he turned into Main Street, a police car cut in ahead of him, and two state troopers jumped out, drew their pistols, and ordered him to pull up.

  “Is he the guy, Wes?” one asked.

  “Sure,” said Wes. “I’d know that shirt anywhere. Get down, pig. You’re under arrest.”

  “Who are you calling ‘pig’?” Billy demanded. “You let me alone.”

  “He wants to know who we’re calling ‘pig’,” said Wes. “That’s a good one—hey, Herb?”

  “Yeah,” said the other trooper. “Come on; get down, pig. You’re going to the hoosegow, the jailhouse, the gorilla-hatch.”

  “But I’m not the one you’re looking for,” Billy protested angrily. “I know him; he’s a pig named Freddy.” He took off his hat. “Look at me; do I look like a pig?”

  “Kind of,” said Herb.

  “Not exactly,” said Wes. “But we know you; you’re awful good at disguising yourself. Come on, quit stalling; ride ahead of us over to the jail.”

  So Billy was taken over to the jail and locked in a cell by the sheriff, who, when the boy again protested that he was not Freddy, said: “I’ll be honest with you, friend. As I remember this Freddy, he was a smart looking feller—brainy, I’d call him. You don’t look much like him and that’s a fact. But these troopers say you’re him. I can’t contradict ’em.”

  Freddy waited for two hours, getting madder and madder all the time. “I ought to have known better than to have taken his word that he wouldn’t try to escape,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Cy, “The great detective kind of laid an egg, didn’t he?”

  “Just the same,” said Freddy, “I still believe he meant to keep his word. I think—well, something must have happened in the Busy Bee—something to delay him. You go around behind that hedge and wait for me. I’m going scouting.”

  Luckily he had an old raincoat of Mr. Bean’s strapped to his saddle. He put this on, punched his hat into a different shape and tilted it over his eyes, and walked on boldly into town.

  Nobody paid much attention to him. A lot of funny looking people came to Centerboro in the summertime; he really didn’t look any queerer than some of them. In front of the Busy Bee he stopped. It would be dangerous to go in. Mr. Metacarpus, the manager, was always on the lookout for shoplifters, and Freddy did not want to become even an innocent object of suspicion. Luckily he was saved the trouble.

  A voice behind him said: “The troopers picked him up right on Main Street. What a nerve—coming right into town!”

  “Well, I always said that pig was gettin’ too big for his breeches,” said another voice.

  Freddy didn’t even turn to see who was speaking. He knew at once what had happened. He turned away and walked straight over to the jail. As he entered the gate a car with two troopers in it swung out and up the street. He went on into the sheriff’s office.

  The sheriff was reading a newspaper. He took his glasses off quickly when Freddy came in. “Well, sir?” he said.

  “I’d like to see that pig that was just arrested,” said Freddy. “I represent the F. B. I.”

  “O. K.,” said the sheriff, getting up. “Got any identification?”

  “My papers are in my other coat,” said Freddy. “I came over here in a hurry—”

  “No matter,” said the sheriff. He laughed. “Around these parts, we say that F. B. I. means ‘Freddy Bean, Investigator.’ He’s a detective, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Freddy, and he thought: “My goodness, why didn’t I think of that!”

  The sheriff unlocked Billy’s cell, let Freddy in, and locked it again. “Holler when you want to get out,” he said, and went back to his office.

  “I wish all I had to do was holler,” said Billy. “My father will be awful mad about this.”

  “He’s awful mad anyway,” said Freddy. “So we won’t worry about that.”

  “I mean he’ll be mad at me,” said the boy. “Being put in jail.”

  Freddy said: “It’s no disgrace being arrested by mistake.”

  “You don’t know my father,” said Billy. “I almost got arrested once for riding on the wrong side of the street. Dad said if I had it would have done him a lot of harm. He’s president of a bank. He said if I’d been arrested people would have made up awful stories about us, and a lot of people would have stopped doing business with his bank. He says he has a lot of enemies who would jump at the chance to pass on gossip about him.”

  “Well, he’s the kind of man who makes enemies,” Freddy said. “I’m president of a bank myself. I’ve been in jail twice for things I didn’t do and it didn’t hurt my business. But of course our bank depositors aren’t people, they’re animals. But that’s neither here nor there. I can get you out of here, I think. But if I do, what will you do for me?”

  “I’ll let that cow out—the one that Dad captured,” Billy said. Neither of them knew that Mrs. Wiggins had already escaped.

  “Fair enough,” said Freddy. “But if I get you out … well, what I was thinking of was hollering for the sheriff, and having you pretend to be me and walk out in this coat. But that would put me on a sort of a spot, because your father—”

  “Yes, Dad will want to get even with you—he’d try to keep you in jail just the same, even if I told him you helped me to escape. You’ll have to square yourself with him first. I think maybe if you apologized—”

  “Nothing doing,” said Freddy firmly. “But let me think.” He didn’t really need to think. He knew how to manage Billy’s escape, but he wanted first to find out if the boy would play fair with him. And he thought he would. For Billy could easily have pretended that he could get his father to let Freddy off. Instead, he had admitted that he couldn’t do anything. Freddy was beginning to like him.

  “Well,” Freddy said. “I’d better call the sheriff. I’ve an idea that—” He broke off at the sound of approaching voices.

  “Why, it’s Dad!” Billy exclaimed. “Oh, golly, if he finds me here—”

  “Quick! Get under the cot!” Freddy was already stripping off the raincoat. As Billy scrambled under, the sheriff and Mr. Margarine appeared at the door of the cell to see Freddy seated mournfully on the edge of the cot, staring at the floor.

  Freddy was seated mournfully on the edge of the cot.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Margarine grimly, “You villain, you wretch. Where is my son? What have you done with him?”

  “He’s safe,” Freddy said. “And he’s right where I can lay my hand on him any time I want to.”

  “You scoundrel!” Mr. Margarine exclaimed. “You wretch! You murderous villain!”

  “Look, mister,” put in the sheriff mildly. “I don’t mind a man callin’ names if he’s good at it. But you ain’t. You keep repeating, like a worn-out talking machine record. If you got a proposition to make, make it. Otherwise, quit disturbing my prisoner.”

  Mr. Margarine gave him a steely glare. “This—this creature has kidnaped my son, and has threatened to send me his scalp. What do you expect me to do—embrace him?”


  He probably wouldn’t like it any more than the name calling,” said the sheriff. “Look, you want your boy. What’ll you do if Freddy turns him loose for you?”

  “I suppose you expect me to say that I’ll drop my case against him—let him go,” Mr. Margarine said. “I will make no such bargain. He wouldn’t dare harm a Margarine!”

  Freddy looked up. “Tisn’t a question of daring. But you’re right—I wouldn’t harm him. But I might succeed in showing him that his father was a mean, hard man, who cared more about his business reputation than about having his family like him. It wouldn’t be hard to prove. Billy has always thought you were fond of him. Once he sees you care more for kicking me around than you do for his safety—well, how’s he going to like it?”

  Mr. Margarine didn’t say anything. He was mad, but he looked pretty upset too. Then the sheriff said: “Mr. Margarine, being the sheriff, I don’t want to see any trouble here for either party. Suppose Freddy produces your boy—will you drop your case and let him go?”

  “How can he produce him if he isn’t set free first?” Mr. Margarine asked. “And do you think I’d take his word that he’d release the boy?

  “Maybe he could send for the boy—have him brought here.” The sheriff turned to Freddy. “How about it?”

  “I’ll produce him here,” said Freddy with a wink at the sheriff. “If Mr. Margarine will accept the bargain.”

  Now Mr. Margarine really did care a lot about Billy, and so there wasn’t much else he could do but agree. He was pretty sour about it.

  So then Freddy said: “O. K., Billy,” and the boy crawled out from under the cot.

  Well, Mr. Margarine pretty nearly had a fit, he was so mad. He didn’t stamp and yell, but he stood perfectly still and he bawled out the sheriff and he bawled out Freddy and he even bawled out Billy—probably because he was so relieved to find that he was all right. The sheriff pretended to be astonished that Billy was in the cell, but naturally Mr. Margarine didn’t believe him. “You’ll lose your job for this—I’m telling you straight,” he said.

  The sheriff was unlocking the cell door. He started to reply, but Billy interrupted him. “Listen, Dad,” he said; “you can’t do that.”

  “Oh, but I can,” said his father. “I have only to say the word in the right places—”

  “If you do, I’ll tell everybody I was arrested and locked up in jail,” Billy said firmly.

  “What?” Mr. Margarine exclaimed. “You wouldn’t do that, son. You don’t know how people pick up a story like that and repeat it. You don’t know what harm it would do.”

  “I can’t help it,” said the boy. “The sheriff hasn’t done any harm. And neither has Freddy.”

  His father changed the subject. “Where did you get those frightful clothes? Come home now and get into something decent.”

  Billy said that he liked the clothes, and that he wanted to get a Western saddle and some boots and things to go with them—a complete cowboy outfit. His father looked distressed, but he said: “Well, if you want them I suppose you’ll have to have them.” Then he paused. “I’m warning you, pig,” he said. “I’m letting you go because I have to. But keep out of my way. I’ll shoot you on sight. Come, Billy.”

  Billy hung back. “I’ll let your cow out,” he whispered to Freddy. “And I’ll meet you in an hour up where I met you this morning.” Then he went on after his father.

  “I sure was surprised to see that boy in there, Freddy,” said the sheriff when they were alone.

  “I bet you were,” said Freddy with a grin.

  “But why did you wait for Margarine?” the sheriff asked. “You know about these window bars.”

  Freddy did indeed know about the window bars. The sheriff was a kindly man, and once several years ago the prisoners had complained about the bars. They had said that iron bars made them feel shut in, made them nervous. “We have to have bars,” the sheriff had said. “Every proper jail has bars. But we’ll fix ’em.” And he did. Now the frames, bars and all, swung out like a casement window. All you had to do was to push them and climb out.

  “We didn’t have time, after we heard his voice,” Freddy said. “Anyway, it was a good time to have a showdown.”

  The sheriff shook his head. “He means that about shooting.”

  “Yes,” said Freddy. “He does. Oh dear, I wish I was braver. It just makes my tail come uncurled when I think of it.”

  The sheriff said consolingly: “I’m sure it would mine if I had one. Confidentially, I’m not very brave myself. What you doing to do?”

  “Have a talk with Billy. He really is brave, that boy. Maybe he can think of something. I certainly can’t. When I get scared I don’t seem to have any thoughts at all.”

  Chapter 16

  Billy didn’t have many thoughts either. Freddy had to walk back to the corner where he had left Cy, and then they rode up to meet the boy. Billy told them of Mrs. Wiggins’ escape. He said that he had left his father stamping up and down the living room. “I’ve never seen him so mad at anyone,” Billy said. “He’s been talking about an ancestor of ours, Sir Henry Margarine; he fought twenty duels and won all of them. Dad says if you were only of noble blood, he’d send you a challenge. But he says you being a pig, he couldn’t demean himself—excuse me, Freddy, but that’s what he said.”

  “I’m glad he feels that way,” Freddy said. “I don’t want him to demean himself by shooting bullets into me. Oh, good gracious, can’t we talk about something else?”

  Billy could, and did. He was delighted with his new saddle and clothes and pistols. Freddy promised to teach him how to use a rope—“if I don’t get shot, that is,” he said. They rode up to Otesaraga Lake, and Freddy showed the boy Mr. Camphor’s estate, where he had been caretaker one summer. They rode races and practiced stunts of various kinds, and then sat down on the shore and talked.

  Billy pulled a paper out of his pocket. “Look, Freddy,” he said. “I forgot this. When we were in your house looking for you, your papers got knocked all over the floor, and I was picking them up when Dad let that snake out. I didn’t have time to do anything but just stuff it in my pocket and run. Then later I read it. I guess I ought to beg your pardon for reading a private paper, but I saw it was poetry, and—well, anyway, I read it and thought it was fine. Did you really write it?”

  Freddy saw that it was the missing poem—one of the series on the features, about the eyes. “Oh, that little thing,” he said, trying to look modest. “Just something I dashed off; it’s of no importance, really.”

  “Oh, I think it’s good,” said Billy, and he read it out loud.

  The Features, No. 6.

  THE EYES.

  The eyes are brown or black or blue

  Or grey, and of them there are two.

  They are arranged beside the nose,

  One to each side, which, I suppose

  Was done because no other place

  Was vacant in the human face.

  Without eyes we would fall downstairs,

  And constantly bump into chairs,

  Our table manners too, I guess,

  Would be a pretty awful mess.

  How helpfully eyes scan the dish

  And watch for bones when eating fish,

  Or with a side glance, indirect, eyes

  Warn us of grease spots on our neckties.

  Then, eyes are used to show our feelings,

  In place of yells and sobs and squealings.

  For instance, to express surprise,

  You raise the lids and pop the eyes;

  In showing grief, the lids are dropped,

  And tears (if any) gently sopped

  Up with a handkerchief—a white one,

  (And preferably clean)’s the right one.

  The eyes are cleverly equipped

  With little lids, which can be flipped

  Up in the morning, down at night,

  To let in or shut out the light.

  We could fill pages with our cries
r />   Of admiration for the eyes;

  They’re indispensable (see above).

  True, eyebrows are well spoken of;

  The ears are hard to do without;

  The nose is useful too, no doubt;

  But eyes! Do not dispense with those!

  A bandon ears; give up your nose;

  But we most earnestly advise:

  Hang on most firmly to your eyes.

  “My,” said Billy, “I don’t see how you do it.”

  “Do you really like it?” Freddy said. “Personally, I like the nose one best.”

  “How does that go?” Billy asked.

  So Freddy recited it. Then he recited the one about the ears, and the one about the mouth. Then he recited two poems about spring. Then he recited a long one about how nice it was to be a pig. Then he started to recite … “My gracious,” he said. “You’ve gone to sleep! Oh dear!” he sighed. “Just the same,” he said to himself. “He’s a pretty nice boy. He stayed awake about twice as long as any of my friends ever did.”

  When they were about to separate that afternoon, Billy wanted Freddy to promise to ride with him again the next day. “We don’t hunt any more,” he said, “now that the farmers are all mad at my father. Oh, I don’t blame them; I see now that we did upset things and interfere with them too much. But it was fun just the same. And it’s no fun riding around by yourself. We could have some good games.”

  “Yes, we could,” Freddy said. “But you know all the animals are pretty sore at you. Maybe I think you’re all right, but they don’t.”

  “I didn’t do a thing but laugh at them,” said the boy.

  “It wasn’t that. You were rude to Mrs. Bean the first day you came to the farm. And you were rude to Mr. Bean too. They won’t forgive that easily.”

  Billy was quiet for a minute, then he said: “I guess … well, I didn’t mean to be, really. Yes, I guess I was. But would—would you ride with me if they weren’t sore?”

  Freddy didn’t answer directly. He said: “It was your whole attitude, Billy. Towards the Beans, towards all of us. I really think that has changed, but I don’t know how much. I don’t know if it has changed enough so we could get along with you. What do you think about it?”