Freddy and the Popinjay Read online

  Freddy showed them where they were to dig.

  They didn’t start digging from the top as a man with a spade would have done. On four sides of the place where the big hole was to be, they drove slanting shafts downward to meet six feet underground. Pretty soon the dirt began to come flying out of the holes, and one gang of woodchucks carried it away and spread it out so that it wouldn’t mound up into heaps. After half an hour or so, the ground in the middle began to cave in, but the workers below kept right on, and by the time they had been working two hours they had finished, and there was a pit in the path some six feet deep and three feet across.

  Freddy in the meantime had gone down to the barn and dragged up an old mattress that had been stored in the loft. He put it in the bottom of the hole, and then they laid small branches across the top of the pit and covered them with leaves and grass and rubbish so that it looked no different from the ground around it. And then Freddy thanked the woodchucks, and they all went home to bed.

  Chapter 7

  Digging the pit had been an idea of Henrietta’s. She said it was the way they trapped elephants in India. I don’t know how she knew about it, for she had certainly never been in India, and I doubt very much if she or any other hen had ever gone in much for elephant hunting. But the idea, of course, was to get Jimmy to chase some animal along that path. The small animal would go across the pit without falling through, but Jimmy’s weight would be too heavy for the light branches and he would break through.

  Then the animals would have him where they wanted him, and would be able to come to terms with him.

  Freddy hadn’t thought it would work. He agreed to try it, but he wanted to try his own plan first. And so next morning after breakfast, when he was pretty sure Jimmy would be out scouting along the fence with a pocket full of stones, Freddy went out into what the animals now called no man’s land, near the fence, and hid behind a bush. He had with him a white rag tied to a stick, and a barrel head with a leather loop nailed to one side, to be used as a shield.

  As soon as he caught sight of Jimmy, he came out and walked boldly, under his flag of truce, towards the fence. But he kept his shield handy too.

  But Jimmy respected the rules of warfare. He didn’t have any handkerchief to wave because his father wouldn’t buy him any, but he came up to the fence and leaned on it and said: “Well, all right. What do you want?”

  “I want to see if we can’t get together,” said Freddy. “There isn’t any reason for us to fight, and we could all have a lot of fun together.”

  “I’m having fun,” said Jimmy.

  “I don’t think it’s fun to hurt people,” Freddy said. “And that’s what you’re doing.”

  Jimmy said: “Sure I am. I told you I’d get even with you. You threw me in the pond, didn’t you? And all I did was just pop that silly duck. It didn’t do her any harm.”

  Freddy felt himself beginning to get angry, but he knew he wouldn’t get anywhere with Jimmy if he did, so he said quietly: “Well, I should think we were all about even, then. But the point of it is: you’re missing a lot of fun you might be having. Now, we’re going to have a party tomorrow night—you know, with games and refreshments and everything—and we’d like to have you come over. How about it?”

  Jimmy hesitated. He had never been asked to a party before. At school he had heard other boys being invited to parties, and he had heard them talking parties over afterwards, but he was so ragged and unkempt, and so cranky, that nobody wanted to ask him. Once, Frank Farrell had said he’d invite him to his birthday party if he’d get his hair cut first. Jimmy had had a fight with Frank over that. But afterwards he had asked his father for money to get a haircut. Of course his father had refused. He had no money to fritter away on barbers, he said; Jimmy’s mother could cut his hair, as she always did. But that was no good to Jimmy. When his mother cut his hair she cut it all crooked, so that he looked more like a scarecrow afterwards than before. She did it on purpose, thinking that when Mr. Witherspoon saw how the boy looked, he might relent and get him a real haircut. But he never did.

  “We’re going to have a lot of fun,” said Freddy. “And maybe Mrs. Bean will bake us a chocolate cake.”

  The nearest Jimmy had ever come to a chocolate cake was to look at one through a bakery window. On his tenth birthday his mother had wanted to buy chocolate to bake him one, but his father had pretty near hit the ceiling. “What do you want to do—ruin us?” he roared. “If the boy wants something sweet, spread some molasses on a slice of bread. That’s good nourishing food; if you spread it thin it won’t hurt him.” So on birthdays and Christmas, Jimmy had as a special treat, bread and molasses. When Mr. Witherspoon wasn’t around, Mrs. Witherspoon spread on the molasses good and thick.

  So the cake pretty nearly decided Jimmy. Freddy watched the boy’s eyes, and he could see hunger in them, and he could see suspicion. The hunger was really as much for friendship as for chocolate cake, Freddy thought. And the suspicion—well, Jimmy couldn’t help that, the way he’d been treated. The hunger had the best of it for a minute, but then the suspicion got stronger, and it fought with the hunger and drove it away. And Jimmy gave a harsh laugh.

  “Chocolate cake for animals? I guess you won’t catch Mrs. Bean at any such foolishness! Anyway, why would I want to go to a party with a lot of cows and pigs and things? No, go on now; you beat it. I’ll give you till I count ten.”

  Freddy saw it was no use. It would have to be the elephant trap after all. He dropped his flag of truce and turned and ran. But Jimmy was counting slowly—he was only up to eight when the pig was out of range. This puzzled Freddy; and when Jimmy threw a stone and it fell short, he took a firm grip of his shield and deliberately walked halfway back. “I’ll give you a shot at me,” he called, “if you’ll tell me what that tree was we saw the other day.”

  “Pooh,” said Jimmy, and threw a stone.

  “Pooh, that’s easy—moosewood,” said Jimmy, and he threw a stone. It whizzed straight for Freddy’s head, but he put up the barrel head and smack! the stone hit it in the center.

  “Hey! That’s good!” said Jimmy. “Let’s try again.”

  “Well,” Freddy said to himself, “this is one kind of game I’ve got him to play. If I don’t get an eye knocked out, maybe—” Tonk! went another stone—“maybe I can get him to playing less dangerous ones.”

  “Say, you’re good!” said Jimmy. “Try this one.” And he scaled a flat stone, which swept around in a long curve. But Freddy caught it.

  “Wow!” he said to himself. “I hope I’m getting somewhere!”

  And maybe he would have, but suddenly he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Hey, you boy! Consarn you, what are you doing, throwing stones at my animals!” And swinging round, he saw Mr. Bean running towards him. And Jimmy turned and made for home as fast as his legs would carry him.

  But Mr. Bean didn’t stop. And he could certainly cover the ground. He had his pipe between his teeth, and at every step a puff of blue smoke spurted into the air, so that he looked like a little steam engine. He took the path that went through the gap in the wall where the woodchucks had dug the elephant trap, because that was the shortest way to get across to the Witherspoon farm.

  “Oh, stop! Stop!” Freddy yelled. But Mr. Bean paid no attention. He ran on, into the path, through the trees—and then he disappeared. There wasn’t any fuss or noise. He just vanished.

  “Oh!” said Freddy. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!”

  Chapter 8

  Jinx and Henrietta, the other two members of the committee, came out from behind a bush where they had been hiding and ran over to Freddy.

  “Freddy!” said Henrietta. “Isn’t this awful! What’ll we do?”

  “Boy, oh boy!” said Jinx in an awed voice. “I know what I’m going to do. I’m going back to the house and pack up my rubber mouse and my catnip ball and beat it. I wonder if the sheriff needs a good cat down at the Centerboro jail?”

  “You can’t do that,” said
Freddy. “We’ve got to help him out, anyway. Maybe he’s hurt.”

  “He isn’t yelling any,” said Jinx.

  “Mr. Bean wouldn’t yell, even if he was hurt,” said Henrietta. “But he can’t be. That’s why we put the mattress there—so Jimmy wouldn’t hurt himself.”

  “Well, come on,” said Freddy. “We’ve got to see. But what can we tell him?”

  “Tell him the truth,” said Henrietta sharply, “and take our lickings.”

  “Mr. Bean never licks us,” said Jinx.

  “No, but it’s the way he looks at us when we’ve done something,” Freddy said. “I’d rather have the licking any day.”

  “Ho, hum,” said Jinx. “No cream for a month, I suppose. Well, let’s get it over with.” Like most cats, Jinx never worried much about hard looks as long as they weren’t accompanied with broomsticks or going to bed without supper.

  They went up unhappily to the edge of the pit and looked down. Mr. Bean was sitting comfortably on the mattress, puffing his pipe, which apparently he had kept in his mouth all the time. When their shadows fell across him he looked up, but he didn’t say anything.

  Usually Mr. Bean didn’t like to hear animals talk. He said it wasn’t fitting. I suppose he meant by that that it is a little unusual to hear an animal talk, and he didn’t like unusual things much. I suppose that was why he had worn the same hat for thirty years.

  “Well—Mr. Bean,” Freddy stammered, “are you—are you all right?”

  Mr. Bean grunted. Then he said: “If I had a mug of cider I’d be as happy as a moth in a blanket.”

  “I—I guess we don’t understand, sir,” Freddy said. “We saw you fall in, and—well, we came to help you out.”

  “Preserve us and keep us!” said Mr. Bean, and a puff of smoke came out with every p. “What for? This is the first time since I started farming it, fifty years ago, that I’ve been in a place where I can look around me and not see a lot of work that has to be done. The first time I’ve been in a place I couldn’t get out of to go look for more work.” He puffed thoughtfully for a minute. “Only thing is,” he said, “I don’t know how I got here. I was chasin’ that consarned Witherspoon boy, and then I was sitting here, smoking my pipe. There must have been something between.”

  “We know what it was,” said Freddy. “We’re responsible for it.”

  “I give you my thanks,” said Mr. Bean.

  The committee looked at one another. Mr. Bean wasn’t taking it the way they had expected him to. But maybe when they told him—

  The committee looked at one another.

  He looked at them shrewdly. “Better not say anything more,” he said. “If you tell me, I’ll have to do something about it, and I don’t feel like it right now. Go away, go away!” he said irritably as Freddy started to speak. “Sometimes you animals don’t know when you’re well off. But wait!” he called as they drew back. “Better send Hank up here after a spell to pull me out. I expect Mrs. B.’ll worry if I’m not home to dinner.”

  The animals started back slowly towards the farmyard. “Well, I guess it’s all right,” Freddy said. “But I can’t figure out why he isn’t good and mad.”

  “Maybe he fell on his head,” said Jinx. “My grandmother fell off the roof once and landed on her head, and she always acted queer afterwards. She used to have fits.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense!” said Henrietta sharply. “Mr. Bean isn’t having fits. He’s enjoying himself. Goodness to gracious, I’d like to get into a nice quiet place like that myself! It would certainly be a change from that henhouse, with thirty cackling children tearing around and asking questions and always wanting something, and Charles practicing his speeches. Well, we’ve tried my plan, Freddy, and we’ve tried yours. Now let’s try Jinx’s.”

  So they went back and gave Hank Mr. Bean’s message, and then they went down to Freddy’s study in the pig pen and made out a list of all the animals and birds that would be useful in carrying out Jinx’s plan. This plan was very simple. It was based on the fact that if a person is kept awake all night, he isn’t likely to be very lively the next day. If they could wake Jimmy up every half hour all night long, he wouldn’t feel much like running around and throwing stones at animals in the morning; he would probably spend most of the day sleeping. And if they did it several nights running, he would probably be willing to let them alone if they would stop bothering him. Jimmy went to bed at nine, and got up with his parents at five. That meant that he would have to be waked up fifteen times during the night.

  “It means a lot of night work for all of us for a while,” Jinx said, “but if we divide it up it won’t be so bad.”

  So Freddy made out a schedule on his typewriter.

  9:30. Jinx yells

  10:00. Freddy squeals

  10:30. Charles crows

  11:00. Henrietta cackles

  11:30. Robert howls

  12:00. Georgie yelps

  12:30. Emma quacks

  1:00. Hank neighs

  “I don’t know about Hank,” Freddy said. “He’s so big, he couldn’t get out of sight quick enough if Jimmy was laying for him. And we’ve got to remember that he will lay for us after the first few times.”

  “If Hank keeps to one side of the window he’ll be all right,” said Jinx. “Jimmy’d have to light a lantern before he could look round. Old Witherspoon doesn’t own a flashlight; he always uses lanterns.”

  “But Hank’s white,” said Henrietta, “and the cows are too. I think we’d better leave them out of it.”

  “Well, it’s only one o’clock, and we’re running short of animals,” Freddy said. “Some of us will have to make two trips.”

  “How about Old Whibley?” said Henrietta. “He’s up most of the night anyway.” Old Whibley was the owl, who lived up in the woods with his niece, Vera. “A couple of those hoots of his will scare Jimmy right out of his nightshirt.”

  “And Vera’s got a screech that will scare him right out of his skin, after his nightshirt is gone,” said Jinx. “Boy, you won’t have to put anybody on for an hour after Vera cuts loose.”

  “I think they’ll do it,” Freddy said. “He’ll grump and grouch about it a lot, but he’ll do it.” And he wrote down:

  1:00. Whibley hoots

  1:30. Vera screeches

  2:00. ?

  “We’re still about five animals short,” he said. “I suppose each of us could stay and wake him up twice.”

  Jinx said no, that wouldn’t do. It ought to be a different noise each time. “If it’s the same sound, he’ll know what to expect and get used to it. It’ll scare him more if he doesn’t know what to expect.”

  “I wish I knew a wildcat,” said Henrietta. “That is, I wish I knew of one. I wouldn’t care to meet one personally.”

  “Let’s look over the different noises,” said Freddy. “I mean, what noises haven’t we got down? Let’s see—we haven’t got twitter or chirp or buzz or growl, but they’re not scary noises. I can grunt, but a grunt is a sort of soothing sound—”

  “Says you!” Jinx exclaimed. “How about ‘snort’ and ‘bellow’? And ‘bawl’? Who can we get to bawl?”

  “I wish Mr. Boomschmidt’s circus was around,” Freddy said. “We could get Leo to roar. Golly, if that lion roared in Jimmy’s window—!”

  “If, if, if!” said Henrietta impatiently. “We can’t work with if’s. We’ve got to use what we’ve got. Freddy, how about your going up and getting Uncle Solomon to help us out?”

  “Great!” said Jinx. “That would give us ‘shriek’ and ‘scream’ all rolled into one nice horrible package. Yes, you go see him, Freddy.”

  Freddy didn’t want to go. Uncle Solomon was a distant relative of Old Whibley’s, a small screech owl who lived all alone in the Big Woods. Like all owls, he was a terrible arguer. Freddy didn’t mind that so much, but nobody had ever been able to win an argument with Uncle Solomon. He could take either side of an argument—and indeed he would usually offer to change sides right in
the middle of one; but whichever side he took, he always won.

  Now with some arguers, if you want to persuade them to do anything, you have to start by trying to persuade them not to do it. And they will argue themselves right into doing it. But with Uncle Solomon you couldn’t ever tell where to start. But at last Freddy agreed to go see him.

  So he went up into the Big Woods and rapped on the trunk of the tree in which the owl lived. “Uncle Solomon!” he called. “Can I see you a minute?”

  The little owl flew down at once and perched just over Freddy’s head. And he said in his small precise voice: “That depends, does it not, on just what you mean by the word ‘see’? Do you mean that you wish to consult me upon some matter, or that you merely wish to look at me? I assume that it is the latter, since the ‘minute’ which you mention contains only sixty seconds, and is therefore hardly long enough for a consultation of any importance. Indeed it is now up, and as you have done what you wished to do—namely, seen me for a minute, I will say good morning.”

  “Oh, dear!” said Freddy hopelessly, and then he got mad. “Oh, all right,” he said. “If you want to be that way about it, I’ll go home. Just forget the whole thing.” And he turned and started back.

  But Uncle Solomon loved to argue—which I suppose was only natural, as he always won. And in addition, he was a lot more curious than owls usually are. Old Whibley would have said: “Good!” and flown back into his nest and gone to sleep, but Uncle Solomon gave his long tittering laugh. “Dear me, how very touchy you are, young pig! Come, come; present your case.”