Freddy Plays Football Page 13

  So Mr. Webb spun down on a long strand until he was just an inch above Mr. Doty’s left ear. “Hey, Charlie!” he whispered.

  Mr. Doty kept right on breathing peacefully in and out.

  “Hey, Chester!”

  Nothing happened.

  “Hey, Clint! … Hey, Clifford! … Hey, Clarence!”

  At the name “Clarence,” Mr. Doty stirred and raised up on one elbow. “What is it?” he whispered.

  “Pssst!” said Mr. Webb. “Don’t move; just listen. The Beans are awake. I’m Garble. I’m over at the window.”

  “What’s the matter—something gone wrong?” Mr. Doty asked.

  “You better believe something’s gone wrong! The sheriff knows who you are—he’s got your jail record, and he’s coming out to tell the Beans in the morning.”

  This was a long chance to take—mentioning a jail record. But Freddy had remembered how scared Mr. Doty had been to go near the jail, and he felt pretty sure that the man had been in jail at some time in the past. And it certainly worked. Mr. Doty sat right up. “Hey, that’s bad!” he said, and put his feet out of bed.

  He didn’t question that it was Mr. Garble speaking, for no one else would have known his first name, and all voices sound alike when they whisper. But when he sat up he moved far enough away from the spider so that he could no longer hear the whisper. And Mr. Webb, swinging at the end of his strand, couldn’t get any closer.

  Mrs. Webb’s brain was no bigger than the head of a pin but it was a good one. If Mr. Doty went to the window and saw that there was no Mr. Garble there, their trick would fail. She hustled across the ceiling until she was directly above Mr. Doty, and then spun down quickly until she was by his ear. “Don’t move!” she warned him. “I think old Bean’s listening outside your door. Look, Clarence, our scheme’s blown up. They know all about you—and I mean all!”

  “You mean that Watertown job last year?” said Mr. Doty.

  “Yes. But even without that they can prove that you’re pretending to be Doty in order to get his money. You know what that means.”

  Mr. Doty didn’t say anything for a minute. Then very cautiously he crept out of bed and over to the window. He knelt there and said in a whisper: “I’m broke, Herb; I got enough gas to get me back to Oswego, but you’d better send me some money there if you don’t want me to give the sheriff the whole story. And don’t forget that address: 24 Killington Street.”

  He leaned slowly out of the window. “Hey, Herb,” he whispered, “where in blazes are you?” He looked up at the eaves and down at the ground, then after a minute pulled his head in. “I wonder,” he muttered. Then he shook his head. “Can’t take any chances.” He listened for a moment at the door, examined the locks on his trunk with a flashlight, then began quietly throwing things into a small bag.

  To Charles’ astonishment when he came out of the henhouse next morning there was Mr. Doty getting into his car. Mr. Bean’s head, in its red and white nightcap, was sticking out of the window, and Mr. Bean’s voice was demanding sleepily what in tarnation Mr. Doty was up to.

  “Well, well,” said Mr. Doty, “didn’t want to disturb you, William. Got to go down to Washington for a day or two. Can’t tell you about it—secret mission for the F.B.I. Back in a day or two.” The car started with a roar and tore down the driveway.

  “Huh!” said Charles crossly. “And here’s Freddy, too. What’s the use my crowing if they’re all going to get up in the middle of the night?” But he crowed anyway.

  Mr. Bean, too, had caught sight of Freddy. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Didn’t I tell you you don’t live here any more?”

  “Now, Mr. B.” Mrs. Bean’s head appeared beside her husband’s. “Where’s Brother Aaron off to?”

  “I think he’s gone away for good,” said Freddy. “But I can tell you more about it when I’ve had a talk with the spiders.”

  “Talk with spiders!” Mr. Bean repeated disgustedly. “Well, you go talk with your spiders on somebody else’s property. I’m going to get dressed.” Their heads disappeared.

  Later, however, Mrs. Bean came out to the pig pen. “Freddy,” she said, “what did you mean? What have the spiders got to do with Brother Aaron?”

  So Freddy told her.

  “But I—I just can’t believe it!” she said. “I … Why, he left his trunk!”

  “You can send it to 24 Killington Street, Oswego, I guess he’ll get it.”

  She looked pretty upset. “I can’t believe it!” she repeated. “You must be wrong, Freddy.”

  “No. His name is Clarence something, and not Aaron Doty at all. He’s someone Mr. Garble sent for, someone he knew before. To get the money. But it’s easy to prove it.” And when he had told her how, after thinking it over, she agreed to try it.

  So Mrs. Bean went into the house and called Mr. Garble on the phone. “Mr. Garble? This is Mrs. Skuznik, at Dutch Flats. A man just drove in here and asked me to phone you. Said he didn’t have time to call you himself. Said to tell you Clarence says to come right out. It’s important.” And before he could ask any questions she hung up. “But I still don’t see why he’d come,” she said.

  “Maybe he won’t. But if he does, it will be because he knows Mr. Doty is Clarence, won’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” said Mrs. Bean with a worried frown. “Oh, if he does come, I’ll—well, I’ll find out.” So Freddy went back outside.

  Sure enough, breakfast wasn’t yet on the table when a car drove into the yard and Mr. Garble got out and tapped on the door. “Good morning, Mrs. Bean,” he said cheerily. “Mr. Doty around? I had to come out this way early, and I thought I’d drop in and just give him this book I promised to lend him.”

  “Come in, Mr. Garble; come in,” said Mrs. Bean.

  So he went in and sat down. Mr. Bean was sitting by the window. “Morning, Herb,” he said, and that was all he said, for he had promised Mrs. Bean not to interfere.

  “Lovely morning,” said Mr. Garble.

  “Beautiful,” said Mrs. Bean. “I suppose that’s why Clarence decided to drive back to Oswego today. You can forward the book to him there. Let’s see—24 Killington Street, I think was the address he left.”

  At the name “Clarence” Mr. Garble leaped in his chair as if he had been stung by six hornets, all at once. “C-Clarence?” he said. “Who’s Clarence?” But his lips were so stiff that he could hardly get the words out.

  Mrs. Bean knew then that Freddy had been right. She got up and stood over Mr. Garble. “I’ll tell you,” she said quietly. “He’s the man you got to come up here and pretend to be my brother. He’s the impostor who very nearly ruined us, because I couldn’t believe that anyone would practice such a wicked deception. We know the whole story.”

  “But you can’t prove anything!” Mr. Garble stammered. He had got up and was edging towards the door. “You can’t do anything to me. I didn’t have a thing to do with his coming here; I’m not responsible—”

  He stopped, for Mr. Bean had got up, and Mr. Bean’s hand had taken him by the arm. “That’s right, Herb,” Mr. Bean said. “You’re as innocent as a little woolly lamb.” He patted him kindly on the head. Then suddenly his manner changed. “Get out!” he roared, and with one hand he flung open the door, with the other he rushed Mr. Garble outside, and then with one large capable boot he kicked Mr. Garble right out into the middle of the barnyard, and with the other large capable boot he kicked the door shut.

  “Boy, what a beautiful punt!” Freddy exclaimed as he saw Mr. Garble fly through the air.

  Inside the house Mr. Bean rubbed his hands. “My,” he said with a broad grin which was visible even through his whiskers, “that’s given me quite an appetite. Mrs. B., let’s have breakfast!”

  So they ate a big breakfast, and then Mr. Bean filled his pipe for the first time in weeks, and lit it. But he had hardly taken two puffs when he laid it down again. “That money,” he said. Then he went out to the pig pen.

  Freddy was waiting. H
e looked at Mr. Bean and Mr. Bean looked at him. Freddy looked scared, but if there was any expression on Mr. Bean’s face, Freddy couldn’t see it, for both face and expression were behind Mr. Bean’s whiskers.

  After a minute Mr. Bean said: “I suppose you want to come back here to live after you get out of prison? Well, if a prison term has taught you a lesson, I guess you can.”

  “Why—thanks, Mr. Bean,” Freddy said. “But I didn’t really steal the money. I know where it is. I’m going to get it now. They won’t send me to jail for that.”

  “Giving back what you stole don’t wipe out your stealin’ it,” said Mr. Bean. “Once you get tangled up with the law, ’tain’t so easy to get untangled again. You’ve got to stand trial. I couldn’t stop that if I wanted to.”

  “Oh,” said Freddy. Then he said: “I don’t care.” And after a minute he said: “I’ll get the money.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Mr. Bean. So he harnessed Hank and they drove down to the jail.

  The sheriff was surprised to hear that the stolen money was hidden right in his jail. And he was more surprised when Freddy led the way to the dining-room and told them it was hidden there.

  “It was a fool place to hide it, Freddy,” he said. “Right in a nest of burglars, as you might say.”

  “Blamedest, silliest thing I ever heard of!” said Mr. Bean.

  “All right, sheriff,” said Freddy, “if you don’t think it was safe, you find it.”

  “That ain’t hard,” said the sheriff. So he hunted. He went through the sideboard, and he looked in the cupboards and under the carpet and in the sugar bowls. “’Tain’t here,” he said at last.

  Freddy would have liked to puzzle the sheriff a little longer, but Mr. Bean was getting impatient, so he asked for a hammer, and when it was brought he took the plaster pie down from the plate rail and smashed it open. And there were the bills.

  The sheriff just stood there for a minute. He gave Freddy a long look, then he turned around and walked right out of the room and went into his office and locked the door.

  Mr. Bean was one of the best people at not saying anything in the whole county. He didn’t say anything all the way home. Once or twice, though, Freddy thought he made a noise behind his beard which might have been a chuckle. But you never could be sure.

  Bill was in the barnyard, and when Mr. Bean had unharnessed Hank and gone in the house, he said: “Hey, Hank, come on; we’re waiting for you.”

  “What goes on?” Freddy asked, and Hank said: “Oh, little game we been playin’ while you been away. Want to come? Maybe you’d enjoy it. Or maybe you wouldn’t—I dunno.”

  So Freddy went. A crowd of animals were gathered together in the upper pasture. The cows and the dogs were there, and Peter, the bear, and his cousin, Joseph, and Mac, the wildcat, and a number of others. As he watched, Mac broke away and dashed across the field, followed by Joseph and Robert. The wildcat was carrying something in his mouth.

  “Not a football!” Freddy exclaimed.

  “Yeah,” said Hank. “Well, f’ain’t a football exactly—just a lot of rags tied up so we can carry it in our mouths. There aren’t enough animals for two full teams. But we’ve been having a lot of fun; Mrs. Wurzburger got two teeth knocked out yesterday.”

  “Well, t’aint a football exactly.”

  “Golly,” said Freddy, “there’s one game I don’t want to play in! All those horns and teeth and claws flying around!”

  “We’re pretty careful,” said Bill. “We’ve made some extra rules, so I guess nobody’ll get really killed. How’d you like to coach, if you won’t play?”

  But Freddy said no thanks and after watching a while he went back to the pig pen and got to work on the next issue of the Bean Home News.

  Chapter 18

  The next game with Tushville was to take place on the following Saturday. But on Wednesday the sheriff drove up to the farm. “Your trial’s been put forward, Freddy,” he said. “Judge says he can hear it this afternoon. You’ll have to come with me.”

  “But I ought to go to school today,” said Freddy. “I haven’t been in quite a while. And I won’t be able to play in Saturday’s game, either.”

  “Too bad,” said the sheriff. “But being tried for a crime is a pretty good excuse for staying out of school. Come along.”

  There was a big audience in the courtroom that afternoon to see Freddy tried for robbery. Most of them knew Freddy and many of them were his friends, but the general opinion seemed to be that a robbery, even if committed with the best of intentions, is not something that can be passed over with just a talking to. And so when Freddy was led in, closely guarded by the sheriff and two troopers with pistols, there was very little applause.

  Freddy had persuaded Old Whibley to act as his lawyer to defend him. “But this is the last time,” he told Freddy. “I can’t spend my life getting you out of trouble. If a person is a born fool, it is a waste of time helping him.” For the owl had defended him once before when Mrs. Underdunk had had him arrested for—she claimed—having tried to bite her. Everyone agreed that Old Whibley had handled the case in a masterly manner, and he had certainly made a monkey out of Mr. Garble, who had conducted the prosecution.

  The first witness called was Mr. Weezer, and he told how, as the result of that phone call, he had given the five thousand dollars to Freddy at 10 A.M. on October 15th. As he mentioned the sum his glasses fell off, and the sheriff picked them up and handed them to him.

  “You are certain that the pig that you handed the five thousand dollars to was this prisoner?” Old Whibley asked.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Weezer, who was groping for his glasses, which had again jumped off his nose. He put them on and looked at Freddy. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It was that pig there, Freddy.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “Just as he is now,” said the bank president. For Freddy wore the school clothes, two sets of which he had bought for Weedly and himself at the Busy Bee.

  “And what did you say to him when you handed him the five thousand dollars?” asked the owl.

  Again the glasses fell off. Mr. Weezer caught them this time, put them on, said: “I told him: ‘Here is the five thousand dollars,’” and immediately caught them as they dropped off for the fourth time.

  Judge Willey leaned forward. “How long have you worn glasses, Mr. Weezer?” he asked.

  “About twenty-five years, your Honor.”

  “Unless you are attempting to amuse the court with a juggling act,” said the judge testily, “I can only conclude that you are an amazingly slow learner. It seems to me that in a quarter of a century you could have worked out some way of keeping them on. In any case, we cannot have the trial interrupted by these continual bouncings and scrabblings. I suggest that you either hold them in place, or tie them on.”

  So Mr. Weezer held them on.

  “Now, Mr. Weezer,” said the owl, “it is a well known fact, is it not, that at the mention of any sum larger than ten dollars your glasses always fall off?”

  Mr. Weezer said it was true.

  “I will ask you,” Old Whibley went on, “if it is not true that at the moment when you handed the money to the person who you claim is the prisoner here, and mentioned the amount, your glasses fell off?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Mr. Weezer.

  “Yet you remember mentioning five thousand dollars to this person?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you say that your glasses did not fall off?”

  “I—well, of course they must have.”

  “Quite so,” said Whibley. “Now, do you see well without your glasses?”

  “I can hardly see at all without them.”

  “And yet you claim that although your glasses fell off at the very moment you handed this money to him, you recognized this pig as the person to whom you gave it. Is that so?”

  “Well,” said Mr. Weezer, “I—”

  “Answer yes or no,” snapped the owl.
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  “Well—yes, of course I did.” Mr. Weezer took out the handkerchief with the initials and dollar signs on it and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

  Old Whibley looked up at the judge. “I submit, your Honor,” he said, “that Mr. Weezer, for whom I have the greatest respect”—he bowed to the banker—“was mistaken. In the course of his business, which has exclusively to do with money, his glasses are, I suggest, as often in the air or on the floor, as on his nose. He cannot therefore rely greatly on his eyesight, and must be forced very often to guess at what he sees. I suggest that he guessed at the identity of the person to whom, in this case, he gave the money.”

  The judge shook his head. “I don’t think you have proved your point.”

  “In connection with the evidence of a witness whom I am now about to call,” said the owl, “I propose to carry my proof one step further. I will call Mr. Metacarpus, manager of that sterling emporium, the Busy Bee.”

  Mr. Metacarpus walked up to the witness box slowly with his hands behind his back, blowing out his big moustache from time to time, and bowing to right and left—“Good afternoon, madam. A lovely day, sir, but cool; topcoats one flight up”—as he did in the store when he greeted customers.

  “Now, Mr. Metacarpus,” said Whibley, “I will ask you to cast your mind back to the morning of October fifteenth. You opened the store at what hour?”

  “Quarter to nine.”

  “Were you there all morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And during that time did you see a pig in pants and a sweater and a cap in the store?”

  “I did.”

  “Was it the same pig, in the same clothes, that you now see sitting there with the sheriff?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are rather near-sighted, are you not, Mr. Metacarpus?”

  “I am not!” said the manager indignantly. As a matter of fact everyone in town knew that he was, but he was too vain to wear glasses.