Freddy the Pilot Read online

  “Oh, Leo!” said Mr. Boomschmidt disgustedly. “What is the matter with you? Why do you always have to throw cold water on my ideas?”

  “Because you’ll be in hot water if I don’t,” Leo said. “Ha, not bad, eh? No; look, chief, suppose you advertise it and the guy comes and drops some of those dummy bombs full of flour on the audience the way he did in Altoona last week. Or suppose you advertise it and he doesn’t show up at all?”

  “We must be gettin’ along, Mrs. B.,” Mr. Bean said. He looked at Mr. Boomschmidt. “Dilemma,” he said, and then turned and pointed his pipe stem at Freddy. “Better let him tackle it.” Then he turned and led the animals out of the tent.

  “Well, Freddy; Mr. Bean’s right,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “That’s my dilemma. Do you suppose you can help me?”

  Freddy didn’t answer at once. He put on his Great Detective expression. He stuck out his chest and pulled in his chin and looked down his long nose at Mr. Boomschmidt. “I have no doubt we can solve this case, which does not seem to offer much difficulty. Whom do you suspect?”

  Mr. Boomschmidt looked puzzled. “Whom?” he inquired vaguely. Then he said: “Oh, I see. Well, good gracious, whom do we suspect of what?”

  “Why, of annoying you, of course,” Freddy said. “Of trying to put the show out of business.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Boomschmidt again. “Good gracious, we don’t suspect anybody, do we Leo? Because we don’t know who’s doing it. So how would we know who to suspect—I mean ‘whom,’” he added.

  “Oh, come on, chief,” said Leo. “Quit kidding around. Tell him about old Condiment.”

  Mr. Boomschmidt could talk straight and to the point when he wanted to. Usually he didn’t want to. He pretended to be a lot more simple-minded than he was so as to mix people up—which was fun for him. It was also useful, for if someone came to him with an objection or a complaint, he could mix them up so thoroughly that usually they forgot what they wanted to say. Indeed, often they turned right around and disagreed with themselves.

  So now he laughed and said: “Well, well, Leo, perhaps you’re right. You see, Freddy, this Mr. Watson P. Condiment wants to marry our Rose.” And he told how Mr. Condiment had tried to buy the circus and how mad he had got when he was informed it wasn’t for sale. “He wants to put the circus out of business,” Mr. Boomschmidt said, “and my goodness, what better way is there to do it than to drop bombs on it?”

  “H’m,” said Freddy importantly. “Ha. I see.” He thought for a minute, then said: “I gather, then, that you think the airplane belongs to Mr. Condiment?”

  “Oh, we’re sure of it, aren’t we, Leo? But we can’t prove it. We complained to the police in several towns, and they checked up on all private planes, and watched, but they can’t find out whose plane this is or where it comes from. We figure he must have a secret landing field somewhere. If you could only find it—”

  “We’ll find it,” said Freddy. “Just leave everything to us, Mr. Boom. You have nothing further to worry about.”

  Freddy called this sort of talk “building up your client’s confidence in you.” It didn’t mean that he had any plan or knew what to do, it just meant that he wanted Mr. Boomschmidt to think that he did. Of course it didn’t fool Mr. Boomschmidt any. But he knew Freddy pretty well, and he felt sure that the pig was smart enough to think up something.

  So he said: “Why, Freddy, that’s fine. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re going to take this case.—Now, why do I say that? Why shouldn’t I be able to tell you? Leo, do you know any reason why I can’t?”

  “Sure, chief,” said the lion. “Maybe you don’t think he’s smart enough to solve it.”

  Freddy didn’t bother to answer him. He walked off to consult his partner, Mrs. Wiggins.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Mrs. Wiggins was talking with Mademoiselle Rose, and when Freddy came up she turned to him. “My land, Freddy,” she said. “I can’t do a thing with this girl. You talk to her, will you?”

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  Rose smiled at him. “Why I was just telling your partner here, Freddy, that I can’t let things go on like this. I can’t let Mr. Boom’s business be ruined on account of me.”

  “You mean you’d marry that old Condiment?” Freddy exclaimed.

  “What else can I do?” she said. “Even if you found some way of getting rid of the airplane, he’d think of something else. Like today, trying to prove that our animals are dangerous. That wouldn’t work in Centerboro, but it does in places where we’ve never given a show before. No Freddy, I’ve decided—there just isn’t any other way.”

  “Mr. Boom thinks there is,” Mrs. Wiggins said. “That’s why he came straight to Centerboro. Freddy is going to think up something.”

  “Eh?” said Freddy, and then he said hastily: “Oh, sure, sure. I’ve got half a dozen ideas—just want to decide which is the best one. Yes, sir; before Frederick & Wiggins get through with that old Condiment, he’ll …”

  Rose interrupted him. “Look, Freddy, I know you want to help and maybe in time you really would figure out some plan. But we haven’t got any time. Every time that plane buzzes the tent and drives the people out, it costs Mr. Boom a lot of money. He’ll go broke before you can do anything. I know you’ve been successful in some pretty tough cases, but this is one where I’m afraid you can’t do anything till it’s too late. I’m the only one that can save Mr. Boom, and I’m not going to put it off any longer.”

  “Well, good land,” said Mrs. Wiggins, “you ought at least to give Freddy a chance to tell you what his plan is.” And she looked confidently at her partner.

  It is nice to be admired, all right, but it is sometimes kind of embarrassing. That was one trouble with Mrs. Wiggins. She was always so sure that Freddy knew just what he was doing that she never hesitated to ask him—usually in front of people. And since, like most detectives, he trusted more to luck than to planning, he had to make up something quick. Right now with them both looking at him expectantly, he put on his most confident smile. Behind it of course his mind was a complete blank. “Ah,” he said significantly. “To be sure. Yes, yes, of course.” And then an idea did pop into his head. Without looking at it very closely he brought it out. “I’m going to find that secret air strip,” he said. “I’m going to get a plane and chase that fellow, next time he comes over.”

  “Gracious!” said Mrs. Wiggins, and Rose said: “But Freddy, you don’t know how to fly.”

  “There are a couple of instructors over at the flying field,” he said. “Jimmy Witherspoon has been taking lessons. They let him solo after he had had just eight hours of instruction. I’m just as smart as Jimmy.”

  “Smarter,” said Mrs. Wiggins loyally. “But, land of love, Freddy—not smart enough to go tearing around the sky after somebody that might shoot at you.”

  “Anyway, there’s not time,” said Mademoiselle Rose. “If that plane spoils three or four more performances, Mr. Boom will have to close down.”

  “He won’t give any more performances until I can fly,” said Freddy. “Look here. Suppose he stays in Centerboro and gives everybody a month’s vacation, puts off the next show until I’m ready to go up and chase that plane away. Will you wait that long? I just know we can manage if we have a little time.”

  “Well.…” said Rose doubtfully. “I think it’s crazy, Freddy. But … yes, I’ll go talk to Mr. Boom. If he O.K.’s your scheme, I’ll wait too. But after that, if you haven’t any results to show—well, I’m just going to say yes to Mr. Condiment.”

  “All right,” Freddy said. “Mrs. Wiggins, you get all the information you can about this Condiment. I’m going over to the airfield.”

  Freddy was in luck. One of the instructors, Johnny Guild, hadn’t had any pupils for ten days and he snapped Freddy up. “We don’t usually take animals,” he said. “But I don’t know why not. It’ll be a great feather in my cap if I have taught a pig to fly.” He looked sharply at Fre
ddy. “You are a pig, aren’t you?”

  “Why, sure,” said Freddy, “what else would I be?”

  “Oh, nothing, I guess. Only … well, you look so much like my Uncle Rollo. Still, I suppose it’s only a superficial resemblance. Hope so for your sake. Made him seasick to ride a bicycle.” He grinned. “Well, come on.” And he led Freddy over to the trainer plane and had him get in and began explaining the instruments and controls.

  Freddy learned quickly, and Johnny had so much free time that he was able to give him several hours a day. Freddy had expected to be scared, but he wasn’t, even when he made his first solo flight. On the third flight he made alone he flew over the Bean farm. It was funny to look down and see the farm spread out below him like a map, the barnyard surrounded by all the buildings, and his own little house just above it, and then beyond, the other farms—Macy’s and Witherspoon’s and Schermerhorn’s. And then beyond them again—looking no distance at all from the air—the towns that were some of them half a day’s journey away—Tushville and Centerboro and South Pharisee—and far to the west some little toy building blocks that were Syracuse.

  He and Johnny got to be good friends, and after a time he told Johnny about Mademoiselle Rose and Mr. Condiment and why he was learning to fly. Johnny was pretty doubtful about the scheme. “I saw that plane that came over and buzzed your circus,” he said. “I think it’s an old army plane from the last war. That means it cruises at 300 miles an hour anyway. It can fly rings around any plane that you or your Mr. Bean could probably afford to buy.”

  “Mr. Bean isn’t going to buy any plane,” Freddy said.

  Johnny laughed. “Maybe I hadn’t ought to tell you,” he said. “But Mr. Bean was out here the other day. He was watching you practising loops and rolls. He stood there puffing so hard on his pipe I thought he’d set those whiskers afire. He kept saying: ‘Is that Freddy? Is that my pig?’ as if he couldn’t believe it. And then he began asking me how much planes cost. And—well, he ended up by making a down payment on one that Ed Platt brought here to try to sell. It’s a Sky Cruiser and has been flown less than a hundred hours. It’s not as simple as this trainer, though in some ways it’s easier to fly.”

  “Oh golly!” said Freddy. “Where is it? Can I see it?”

  “You ought to wait till Mr. Bean shows it to you. Stay home tomorrow; I think he’s asked Ed to fly it out to the farm.”

  Freddy didn’t say anything to the other animals about what Johnny had told him, so that when Ed Platt set down the plane in the upper pasture next morning they all rushed up from the barnyard, supposing that it had perhaps been forced down by engine trouble. Sniffy Wilson caused a slight panic among some of the younger animals by shouting that it was a space ship. “The Martians have landed!” he yelled. “Run! Hide! These are terrible creatures from another planet!”

  Some of the rabbits and one or two field mice ran off and hid, and Uncle Wesley started immediately for the woods.

  He tried to persuade Alice and Emma to go with him, but they knew that Sniffy got most of his ideas from the comics he was always reading, and that there wasn’t likely to be much sense in anything he said; so they didn’t go. Uncle Wesley didn’t come back for nearly a week and he only reappeared then because he couldn’t find anything to eat in the woods and he decided that there was less chance of being cooked and eaten by Martians than of starving to death if he stayed where he was.

  Ed Platt climbed out of the plane and shook hands with Mr. Bean and the animals stood around in a circle and watched. The two men talked a minute, and then Mr. Bean turned and crooked a finger at Freddy. So Freddy went forward.

  Mr. Bean looked at Freddy, then he looked at the plane. He cleared his throat several times, and at last reached out and laid his hand on the wing. “Yours,” he said. “Your plane.” And then as if feeling that perhaps something more in the way of a speech of presentation was needed, he said, “Good pig. Good pilot. Only pig pilot in the country. Frederick Bean. Proud of ye.” He gave Freddy a whack on the back and turned and stumped off towards the barn.

  The animals all cheered. They cheered for Mr. Bean and they cheered for Freddy and then they cheered for the plane. But a stranger, a muskrat named Lyman, who had stopped in to call on Sniffy Wilson, snorted contemptuously and said to Jinx: “Grumpy old codger, ain’t he? Acts like he hated the pig.” And he criticized Mr. Bean for several minutes.

  “Look, friend,” said Jinx finally. “Mr. Bean isn’t a yap-and-jabber man like some folks that drop in here from time to time. When he says, ‘Good pig,’ it’s the same as if he made a long speech and hung a medal on Freddy and fired a salute. If he looks at you and nods, it’s the same as if I put my paws on your shoulders and kissed you on both cheeks. Like this,” he said and sprang at the muskrat.

  “Hey, quit” said Lyman. “I didn’t mean anything. I—”

  “O.K., then; beat it,” said Jinx. And as the rat hesitated: “I might get feeling affectionate towards you again, any minute.” So Lyman went.

  “Well, Freddy,” Ed Platt said, “there she is. She’s a nice ship. Lucky you’ve got this level field, though it’s a little short, Mr. Bean is going to take down that fence—throw these two fields together. Then you’ll have a pretty fair air strip. Well suppose I take you up and show you how she works.”

  So they went up and Ed put the plane through its paces, and then they came down and changed places and Freddy took it up.

  “You did fine,” Ed said when they had landed again. “But you shouldn’t take her up alone for a day or two. She handles easier than the trainer, but she’s a lot faster and there are more chances to get into trouble. I’ll come out again tomorrow.”

  Mr. Boomschmidt agreed to Freddy’s plan, although he wasn’t very hopeful about it. But he said a vacation would be good for his animals. Of course they had had what was practically a vacation all winter long, but Mr. Boomschmidt said that his father had always told him that you couldn’t have too much of a good thing. So the circus stayed in camp at the Centerboro fair grounds, but there wasn’t any performance, and the animals could do what they pleased all day long. They had lots of friends in town, and these people invited them to dinner and to play cards, and it was altogether quite a gay season. Indeed they were simply deluged with invitations. Even Hannibal, the elephant, dined out nearly every evening, and it is no joke ordering dinner when you have an elephant as guest. Not when you have to provide a ton or two of hay. Jerry, the rhinoceros, was the only one that didn’t get many invitations. Everybody liked him, but he didn’t see very well and was always breaking dishes or sitting down in chairs that weren’t strong enough for a rhinoceros. And he was not a very good card player either. Old Mrs. Peppercorn felt so sorry for Jerry though, that she gave a lawn party for him, and it was quite a success. Jerry was so happy when he said goodbye he cried, and he leaned against a corner of the porch and the whole porch collapsed with him. Then he cried harder than ever, but Mrs. Peppercorn said he mustn’t feel bad, because she only rented the house and so the porch wasn’t really hers anyway. So Jerry felt better.

  The whole porch collapsed with him.

  In the days while Freddy was learning to fly, nothing was seen of the mysterious plane. Evidently Mr. Condiment, or whoever owned it, had some way of finding out that no performances were to be held. Mrs. Wiggins sent Rabbit No. 23, one of the firm’s best investigators, around to question various people, but he learned little of interest. Mr. Condiment’s lawyer had left town again after his failure to have Mr. Boomschmidt arrested, and Mr. Condiment himself was presumed to be at his home in Philadelphia, where he had some sort of a publishing business. Mr. Boomschmidt said that he probably would show up in Centerboro soon; because he hadn’t proposed to Mademoiselle Rose since they left Altoona, and he’d been coming and begging her to marry him about once a week ever since early spring.

  Of course there had been a good deal of talk about Freddy’s flying lessons, and within a week or so stories of the flying pig had got in
to the papers, and several reporters had come up from New York to interview him. There had been a big story about him in the Times magazine section, with pictures. And the result of all this publicity was a telegram from Mr. Bean’s Uncle Ben, who was now living in Chicago, announcing that he was coming to spend a few months, to do some experimental work in his old shop in the barn loft, in which work he needed the assistance of an experienced airplane pilot.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Mr. Benjamin Bean was an inventor. While at the farm on a previous visit he had invented a number of useful gadgets—a cake of soap which would not slip out of your hand in the bathtub, an alarm clock which shot off a series of firecrackers, and most important of all, a clockwork boy named Bertram who could do almost anything a real boy could when he was wound up and operated by some animal small enough to get into the little control room between his shoulders.

  Uncle Ben was a nice person to have around, for if anything got broken or out of order, he could fix it as good as new. Sometimes even better than new. For when he had fixed an article, it often seemed to have turned into something entirely different. Like the time Mrs. Bean’s washing machine broke down, and he fixed it, and afterwards it wouldn’t wash any more, and when you turned it on it got very hot, so they used it as an oven to keep Mr. Bean’s supper warm when he was late. But Uncle Ben was even less of a talker than Mr. Bean. So when he came rattling through the gate a couple of days later in an old station wagon, and climbed out and shook hands with the Beans and with all the animals without saying a word, nobody was surprised. “You’re just as much of a chatterbox as you always were, Uncle Ben,” Mrs. Bean said, and he grinned and patted her on the shoulder. Then he pointed to the station wagon which seemed to be full of tools and pieces of machinery. “Shop,” he said. So the animals pitched in and carried everything up the narrow barn stairs into the old shop.