Freddy Plays Football Read online

  The mouth is quite a useful feature;

  With it, three times a day, you eat your

  Meals, and with it, Doty produces

  Big lies, and very lame excuses.

  “Tut, tut,” said Freddy; “I can’t put that in the paper.” So he started again.

  The mouth, between the nose and chin,

  Is used for (quietly) taking in

  Both food and drink. Also for speaking,

  For singing, hollering and shrieking.

  But if you let it talk too much

  You’ll find it getting you in dutch,

  For it, unless used just for grub, ’ll

  Cause you an awful lot of trouble.

  And you will find, like Mr. Doty,

  That—

  “Oh, dear,” said Freddy, “there he is again!” Then as a great clattering and roaring began in the distance and grew louder behind him, he looked around. “And there he really is!” he exclaimed, for Mr. Doty’s car was coming down the road.

  As Freddy stepped to the side of the road he saw that Mr. Doty was bent over the wheel, staring fixedly straight ahead. He came on, without looking to one side or the other, and perhaps he really didn’t see the pig, for when the car was almost up to Freddy, it swerved and came straight at him. Freddy dove for the ditch and the car rattled by.

  When he had scrambled back up on to the road he saw that the car had stopped and Mr. Doty was getting out. “Hey!” he yelled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Mr. Doty came up. “Well, well; apologize to you, Freddy. ’Deed I do! That old steering wheel! Take your eyes off it for a minute and it starts off somewhere all by itself.” He shot a quick look at the pig. “Yes, sir,” he went on quickly, “steering wheels, I just don’t understand ’em. Chickens they go for, mostly. Never saw one go for a pig before. Well, well; hop in if you’re going to town.”

  Freddy thought he would be safer in the car than out, and got in. There was so much noise, when they started, that conversation was impossible. When they got to Centerboro, Freddy directed Mr. Doty to the jail, for he was going to call on his friend the sheriff. Mr. Doty refused to drive in, but stopped outside the high iron gates. “Churches, yes,” he said. “High schools, theatres, even sawmills—yes. But jails, no. Jails I can’t enjoy.”

  “Have you been in jail?” Freddy asked.

  Mr. Doty jumped slightly, then he said: “I’ve visited friends was staying in ’em. Poor fellows. Bolts on the windows and bars on the door. Or vice versa. Makes me sweat to think of ’em.” And indeed big drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

  “This jail is different,” said Freddy. “The prisoners always hate to leave when their time is up.” He pointed to the sign over the gate:

  Centerboro Jail

  “A Home From Home”

  He waved to a group of the prisoners who were playing hopscotch on the lawn, and went in.

  The sheriff was in his office, shining up his big silver star with an old toothbrush. Freddy told him about Mr. Doty, and then asked if there was any way of finding out if Mr. Garble had had a long distance phone call from Collywobble, Indiana, about two weeks ago. “Sure,” said the sheriff, and he called up his niece, Nettie, who ran the telephone exchange. And Nettie said there never had been any such call.

  Well, that proved that Mr. Doty had made up his whole story, but as the sheriff pointed out, it still didn’t prove that he wasn’t Mrs. Bean’s brother. “And that’s the only thing that will stop them from giving him the money,” he said. “I dunno what you can do, Freddy, but you got to work fast. Of course, maybe Bean can’t raise the money; folks claim Doty’s share is around five thousand dollars and that’s pretty near as much as the whole farm is worth.”

  “Well, you know Mr. Bean,” Freddy said. “If he thinks he owes it, he’ll pay it, even if he has to sell the farm and go to the poorhouse.”

  The sheriff scratched his head. “Let me think,” he said, so Freddy let him. But at last he said: “I ain’t getting anywhere. Just giving myself a headache. I don’t do much thinking nowadays, and I guess it’s like any other game, you got to practice a lot to keep in trim. To be honest, Freddy,” he said in a burst of frankness, “I don’t believe I’ve had a new thought since 1912 when I decided to quit wearing a necktie. But if you have any thoughts, me and the boys will stand back of you. Just call on us.”

  Freddy decided he’d have to do any thinking that was done, so he started right in. He was thinking so hard that as he turned into Orchid Street he ran smack into a boy who was coming around fast in the other direction. Freddy was heavier than the boy, so the boy sat down hard.

  Freddy helped him up. “Oh, it’s you, Jason,” he said. “I’m sorry; I was thinking.”

  “Well, you sure get quick results,” said Jason. He was going over to the athletic field for football practice. “Everybody’s so discouraged that I don’t suppose there’ll be many out. I hope there’ll be enough of the scrubs to give us a workout. Come on along.”

  So Freddy went. He sat on the sidelines and watched the boys go through their signals, and then when seven or eight of the scrubs showed up, the coach, Mr. Finnerty, lined them up against the school team. But they weren’t strong enough to be much good. The coach danced around and yelled at them, and went in and played different positions himself but even he, when the scrubs had the ball, couldn’t gain a yard, and when the team had the ball it might as well, Freddy thought, be playing against a lot of field mice.

  A cold wind had sprung up, and Freddy slipped into Jason’s sweater which was lying beside him. There was a padded headgear on the grass, and pretty soon he put it on to see what it was like. And he had just adjusted it to fit him when Mr. Finnerty came over to him. “Hey, you—whatever your name is,” he said. “Get up and get in there. —Go on, no back talk!” he shouted, as Freddy tried to explain. “I didn’t get you boys out here to sit and watch the grass grow.” He grabbed Freddy by the shoulder and pulled him up. “Go in there with the scrubs, at left tackle.” And he gave the pig a push.

  Pretty soon he put it on to see what it was like.

  “OK,” said Freddy to himself. “Why not?” He knew quite a lot about the game from having watched it so often, and he ran out and crouched down in position just as Jason dropped back to kick. He watched the ball, and the second it was passed he plunged forward.

  Now Freddy was not large, but he was compact, and weighed nearly twice as much as Henry James, the right tackle opposing him. And of course he was closer to the ground, particularly as he ran on four legs. Henry went right up in the air, and Freddy ploughed on, sideswiped another player and sent him sprawling, and hit Jason just as the ball touched his fingertips. Jason went down and the ball rolled off to one side where it was captured by one of the scrubs.

  It was first down for the scrubs and they yelled their heads off. Freddy helped Jason up, and the boy grinned. “You been thinking again,” he said. Then the coach came up and whacked Freddy on the back.

  “You boys,” he said, “that’s the way I’ve been telling you to keep down when you hit the line. That was the prettiest blocked kick I ever saw.” He swung Freddy around to face him. “You haven’t been out before, have you? I’d remember you if you had.” A startled look came over his face. “What—ah, what is your name?”

  “Frederick Bean,” said Freddy.

  “Bean,” said the coach. “M-hm.” He backed away slowly. “Well—er, Frederick, I hope you’ll come out regularly. If you keep doing as well, I’ll put you on the team.” He had stopped looking at Freddy; he rubbed his chin and shot quick glances at the pig from under his eyebrows. Then he suddenly shouted: “Well, come on! We’ll let the scrub have the ball. They won it. Let’s see what they can do with it.”

  Freddy was pretty sure that all the boys knew that he was a pig. Indeed, he knew most of them to speak to. But he was sure that they wouldn’t say anything. Nobody raises objections to having a good player on his team. And for the same reaso
n, Mr. Finnerty wouldn’t say anything either. So he buckled down and played hard. Of course he wasn’t any good at catching or throwing passes, and anyway, he needed all his legs to run with. But his blocking and tackling were superb. The coach was delighted with him. “Golly, Freddy,” said Jason, “if Mr. Finnerty will let you on the team, I bet we can work out some plays that will beat Tushville.”

  Freddy said he didn’t think he could spare the time—he was working on an important detective case.

  After a while Mr. Finnerty said that was enough for today, and he called the boys together to give them a little talk before dismissing them. It was then that Freddy noticed that Mr. Doty was watching the play. There was another man watching, too. He was a short, red-faced, pompous man, and now he walked towards them. “Oh-oh,” said Jason in Freddy’s ear, “here comes Mr. Gridley, our principal. He doesn’t like football.”

  Mr. Gridley stopped some distance from the group. He never came close to anybody he was talking to, but always stood off several yards and shouted. “Mr. Finnerty,” he roared, “have these boys done their home work?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said the coach. “That’s hardly my problem, is it?”

  “You know how I feel about this game,” said Mr. Gridley. “A complete waste of time, and moreover there is no longer any interest in it except among a few. I have warned you before that unless their scholastic record shows marked improvement, I shall prohibit football in the Centerboro school.”

  “He knows perfectly well that we’re all getting good marks,” Jason whispered.

  Mr. Finnerty started to say something, but the principal held up his hand. “Now, now,” he roared, “no excuses! And another thing: one of you boys—you there!” he shouted, pointing at Freddy who was edging away. “Come here, sir! You were running on all fours! Disgraceful! I’ve always said that football is a game only fit for wild animals, but no boy in my school is going to behave quite so much like a wild animal as that.”

  “Well, well, well,” said Mr. Doty, who had lounged up nearer, “I see you are not familiar with the game as it is played nowadays, sir.”

  “Who are you?” Mr. Gridley demanded.

  “Aaron Doty, Ph.D. at your service, sir. Also an M.B.F., I am.”

  Mr. Gridley, who was not a Ph.D. himself, was impressed, and doubly impressed by the M.B.F., which he had never heard of before. “You mean you approve of these ape-like antics?” he demanded.

  “I not only approve, I applaud,” said Mr. Doty. “Myself, I introduced these same antics at Yale, where I was captain of the football team for three years. Where for three years we won easily every game we played.”

  “You couldn’t have won those you didn’t play,” remarked Mr. Gridley.

  “We could have, but it was unnecessary,” said Mr. Doty loftily. “So we never tried.”

  Mr. Gridley looked a little confused, and then he said angrily: “You could have won still more easily if you had gone into the game with clubs and pitchforks.”

  “Against the rules,” Mr. Doty replied. “No weapons allowed. But there’s no rule against running on all fours. They’ve even adopted it at Harvard this year.”

  Mr. Gridley was evidently at a loss for an argument, and while he was searching for one, his eye fell again on Freddy. A puzzled look came over his face. “You—boy!” he said, and adjusting his glasses, he peered at the pig. “You’re not in my school!”

  “Well—no, sir,” said Freddy.

  “Well then, what—” He stopped. “Great gracious!” he exclaimed. “You’re not even a boy. You’re a pig!”

  Mr. Doty attempted to interpose again, asserting that the whole team at one famous college was composed entirely of pigs. But Mr. Gridley brushed him aside, ordering Freddy off the field.

  There was nothing else to do. Freddy went, and Mr. Doty followed after a minute. “Want a ride home?” he said.

  “Home?” said Freddy sarcastically, for it made him mad to have Mr. Doty refer to the Bean house as his home.

  But Mr. Doty grinned. “Home is where the icebox is,” he said. “Jump in.”

  They couldn’t talk much on the way, but when they drove into the barnyard and the car had stopped, Mr. Doty said: “There’s no rule against pigs playing, you know.”

  “There’s one against people who don’t go to school playing, though,” Freddy said.

  “There ain’t any against pigs going to school,” said Mr. Doty. “You ever been? School ain’t so bad.”

  “I haven’t got the time,” Freddy said. “Say, what’s M.B.F.?”

  Mr. Doty grinned. “Member of the Bean Family. That’s right, ain’t it? A brother-in-law is a member, ain’t he?”

  “If he is a brother-in-law,” said the pig.

  “Meaning you don’t think I am, hey? Well, well; try and prove it!” Mr. Doty got out of the car.

  Thinking things over afterwards, Freddy was puzzled. Here was Mr. Doty, who was trying to get the Beans’ money away from them, who had tried to run him down in his car. Undoubtedly a thoroughly bad character. And yet he was a lot of fun sometimes. “And he certainly tried to help me out with Mr. Gridley,” Freddy thought. “Oh dear, I wish people were all one thing or all the other. There’s that Mr. Gridley, too. All the boys respect him because he’s just and honest. But none of them like him, because he blusters and roars at them. And I bet they all like Doty.”

  It was too much of a problem for Freddy. He went into his study and finished up his poem.

  The mouth is located below

  The nose, and is constructed so

  That when it grins, it stretches wide

  To touch the ears on either side.

  This elasticity is handy

  In eating pie, or hunks of candy.

  Though hunks that stretch the mouth too tight

  (By some considered impolite)

  Require much earnest concentration,

  And interfere with conversation.

  In fact, there are extremely few

  Who can, with charm, both talk and chew.

  It’s best to keep the two things separate;

  When dinner’s served, just salt and pepper it,

  And for your conversation wait

  Until there’s nothing on your plate.

  Chapter 7

  That evening after supper Jinx came bounding up to the pig pen. “I’ve got some bad news, Freddy,” he said. “Mr. Bean was telling old Doty that he’d have his money for him in a couple of days. Mr. Weezer, down at the Centerboro Bank, is going to lend it to him. We’ve got to stop it somehow. Mr. Bean will never be able to pay that much money back, and he’ll lose the farm.”

  So they went right down to the cow barn to talk to Mrs. Wiggins. When she heard the news, she said: “Well, if this man is really Mrs. Bean’s brother, it’s awful hard on the Beans, but we’ve got no right to interfere. Because the money really belongs to him. I wish we knew.”

  “I don’t see what we could do,” said Jinx. “Unless we can prove he isn’t her brother.”

  “We’d have a right to do something. I guess ’twouldn’t be so hard to figure out what.”

  “I wonder if he’s married,” said Freddy suddenly.

  “I’ve stuck around the house a lot since he’s been here, and I haven’t heard him mention it. Of course he wouldn’t, would he?”

  “Well, as long as he hasn’t—” And Freddy outlined an idea that had just struck him. But Jinx sniffed, and Mrs. Wiggins only said thoughtfully: “H’m.”

  “Great enthusiasm!” said Freddy. “Look, all I want to do is find out if he’s real or a fake. It won’t prove anything, but if we know he’s a fake, we can do something, as Mrs. Wiggins says. Well, I’m going to do it anyway.”

  Among the many disguises Freddy used in his detective work, the best was that of an old woman—probably because the bonnet hid his long nose, and the skirt came down to cover his trotters. With it he wore spectacles and black cotton gloves. So next morning he got these things together
and carried them down to the Centerboro Hotel, and went in to see Mr. Ollie Groper, the proprietor.

  Mr. Groper was a large fat man who never used a short word if a long one would do. “This here,” he said as he shook hands, “is a most felicitous visitation. Proceed into my sanctum.” He led the way into his private office, sat down heavily, and nodded towards a second chair. “The assumption of a semi-recumbent or quasi-horizontal position will sort of facilitate the interchange of observations.”

  Freddy said: “I need your help. I’d like to take a room in the name of Mrs. Aaron Doty. Here’s her clothes, and I’m her.”

  “Investigating the transgressions of some malefactor, I presume?” inquired the hotel keeper.

  So Freddy told him about Mr. Doty.

  “Well,” said Mr. Groper, “I guess you’re cognizant of the fact that the entire resources of this here establishment—culinary, pecuniary, and—and dictionary, are at your service.” He started to heave himself up out of his chair, then paused. “I’d sort of like to see you attired in these here habiliments of femininity,” he said. So Freddy put them on.

  Mr. Groper looked him over carefully. He began to smile and then to chuckle, and then to heave and rumble with laughter. The laughter seemed to be all inside him, and he shook until the chair gave several loud cracks. Then he got up.

  “I have never,” he said—and stopped. “In all my life,” he said, and stopped again. Then he shook his head. “Words fail me,” he said, and led the way, still shaking and sputtering, up to a vacant room. Freddy thought it was one of the finest compliments to his power of disguising himself that anyone had ever paid him, and perhaps it was.

  Up in his room, Freddy telephoned the Bean farm.

  Freddy telephoned the Bean Farm.

  When Mrs. Bean answered: “Good day to ye, ma’am,” he said. “This is Mrs. Aaron Doty. Would ye be kind enough to be after callin’ me dear husband to the instrument?” He spoke in a terrible Irish brogue, which would have made any real Irishman curl up in knots, but which seemed the best way to disguise his voice.