Freddy the Politician Read online

  “I know,” said Freddy. “My whole family are that way. Fleshy. My father was enormous. A fine figure of a pig, you understand, but—enormous. We like to eat, of course. Pigs do. I expect that’s why they call us pigs.”

  “I remember your father,” said John. “When I was little he used to come down to the woods for acorns. We liked him so much. Always a laugh and a joke for everybody. You know, Freddy, it was always my ambition to grow up to be as smooth and sleek and—well, rounded, as he was.”

  “That’s funny,” said Freddy. “I’ve always wanted to be thin. Always. Sort of slender and willowy. I never saw a pig like that, but I see no reason why one shouldn’t be. You know, the first thing I ever wrote had a hero like that. A slim pig. Dear me, what was the title of that?—The Trail of the Lonesome Pig?—no, that was another one. Come down to my study. I’d like to read it to you.”

  So Freddy forgot all about the board meeting, and he and John spent a happy afternoon reading out loud in the pigpen. And it wasn’t until supper time, when John had at last gone home, that Freddy remembered.

  Probably he wouldn’t have remembered then if John Quincy hadn’t come over to tell him the result of the meeting.

  “We voted you out and X in as secretary,” said the woodpecker. “And then we voted you in again as sixteenth vice-president. So you see you still have your office, but none of the work to do.”

  “Sixteenth vice-president!” said Freddy. “But there aren’t any vice-presidents. How can I be sixteenth?”

  “Banks always have a lot of vice-presidents,” John Quincy explained. “The more they have, the more important the bank is. We just made you sixteenth so it would sound like a more important bank.”

  “But what do I have to do?” asked the bewildered pig.

  “You don’t have to do anything. That’s just the beauty of it. The vice-presidents don’t vote, even, so you don’t have to worry about that. The only thing they have to do is if the president is absent, one of them takes his place. It’s really an honorary position. Very highly honorary, Father says.”

  “Too honorary for me,” said Freddy. And then he remembered, and instead of saying what he had been going to say, he began to laugh. And John Quincy got mad and left.

  But he left without finding out what Freddy really thought about the result of the meeting, and that was just what Freddy wanted him to do. For Freddy didn’t have any thoughts about it at all.

  X

  Wasps as a rule keep to themselves and have little to do socially with their neighbors. But there was one wasp named Jacob who had struck up quite a friendship with Jinx. The cat had been treed by a dog and Jacob had come along and stung the dog on the nose and driven him away. He had done it more as a joke than anything else—wasps have a queer sense of humor—but Jinx had been grateful, and they had had several long talks together. They had found that they both liked to play the same kind of jokes on people, and they could often be seen in a corner of the barnyard snickering over some new mischief they were cooking up.

  One day about a week before the election Jacob saw the tip of the cat’s tail sticking out of a tangle of bushes down by the lower meadow. He circled around a couple of times, playing with the idea of dropping down and just stinging the tip of the tail gently. But he was really quite considerate for a wasp; he almost never stung his friends, even in fun. So he flew down and crawled into the bushes near Jinx’s nose.

  “Hello,” said the cat. “If you want to see something funny, look out there.”

  Out in the meadow Freddy was crouching down in the grass, and as Jacob looked, the pig gave a sort of clumsy spring, as if he were pouncing on something. Then he stood up, looked around sheepishly to see if he had been observed, and crouched down again.

  “Freddy asked me the other day,” said Jinx, “how I got so thin last summer, and I told him I thought it was because I ate so many grasshoppers. That’s what Mrs. Bean said, anyway. She advised me not to eat any more of them. So Freddy’s gone on a grasshopper diet to see if he can reduce. But of course he can’t catch the darn things.”

  “He’ll reduce all right,” said Jacob. “Why, he couldn’t catch two a day.”

  The two friends watched for a while, giggling at the pig’s ridiculous capers; then Jacob said: “I’m going out and have some fun. Pretend I’m a grasshopper.”

  “Don’t sting him,” said Jinx anxiously. “Freddy’s a poet, and stings hurt him worse than they do other animals.”

  “Leave it to me,” said Jacob. He went out and swung on a blade of grass a few feet in front of Freddy’s nose. Pretty soon the pig saw him. He crouched and crawled closer, but just as he was about to spring, Jacob made a pretty good imitation of a grasshopper jump and landed on Freddy’s ear. Freddy made a pass at him, and Jacob jumped to his tail. Freddy whirled, but Jacob was on his ear again. And so it went on, while Jinx rolled on the ground with laughter. And at last Freddy, panting and exhausted, stretched out on the ground. Jacob flew up close to him and said: “Hey, Freddy, don’t you want to play any more?”

  “Eh?” Freddy gasped. “It’s Jacob, isn’t it? Darn you, Jacob, is that any way to treat a friend?”

  “Why, sure,” said the wasp. “You want to reduce, don’t you? I was just giving you a little work-out. I bet you’ve lost five pounds.”

  “Did you ever think of taking up fancy dancing, Freddy?” asked Jinx, strolling out from the bushes. “I had no idea you were so graceful.”

  “Oh, it’s all very funny to you,” said Freddy bitterly. “But you’ve always been slim and distinguished-looking. You don’t know what it is to be fat. I can dance well, and I can swim, too, but everybody laughs when I do it. I want to look romantic—like Jacob, here—sort of dark and dangerous-looking. And I am romantic—I’m just full of romance inside.”

  “There must be a lot of it, all right,” said Jinx. “No, but really, Freddy, I think you’re all wrong about this fat business. Pigs are fat. You’d look funny if you weren’t. And as far as being romantic goes, my goodness, look at all the things you’ve done! You’ve traveled, and you’ve been a detective, and you’ve written fine poetry, and what could be more romantic than some of the adventures you’ve had? I’m sure if anybody said: ‘Who is the most romantic animal on this farm?’ everybody’d say you were. Wouldn’t they, Jacob?”

  “Sure would,” said Jacob, who was polishing his sting on a bit of moss. “Of course, there’s this about fat: some people just sink down into it, and others rise above it. But I’d say you rise above it—all the things you’ve done. You’re a pretty important pig. And you’ve done it without making anybody mad at you. Why, you’ve even been fair to us wasps. And most people don’t like us much. ‘Get out the fly-swatter!’—that’s what they say when they see one of us. I’d rather be fat and have people smile when they see me than be romantic-looking and have them try to squash me.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right,” said Freddy, brightening a little. “But I’ve been worried lately. This bank business, and then the election. I don’t see how Mrs. Wiggins can lose, and yet Grover seems awfully sure of himself. And there’s a lot going on I don’t understand.”

  “Being a bug, the election means nothing to me,” said Jacob, “but I don’t like birds, and I don’t think a bird would be a good president. He’d be too careless. Here’s what I mean. You take this Grover. He eats bugs, and I don’t hold it against him, for it’s his nature so to do. Anyway, he doesn’t eat wasps. And that’s just what I mean. He doesn’t like wasps, and yet if I walk up a tree in front of him, chances are he’ll make a grab at me. Why? He’ll only get stung. I say birds are careless.”

  “Well,” said Jinx, “I don’t eat beetles, but I often make a grab at them. Just for fun.”

  “You wouldn’t if they had stings like this,” said Jacob, making a playful pass at the cat, who jumped back with a yowl.

  “You see?” said the wasp. “But birds never learn. Look at chickens. There isn’t a chicken of my acquaintance who h
as ever learned that the way not to be run over by an automobile is to get off the road. They jump and squawk and run all over the road and act like fools every time they see one. They never learn. That’s why I say that all this talk of Grover’s about your needing a president with experience is funny. I don’t say he hasn’t had lots of it, but he hasn’t learned anything by it. And so what good is it?”

  “What’s the point of this lecture?” asked Jinx, who was getting bored.

  “The point is that I’m on your side and might be some help. A good sting in the right place might be worth a couple of hundred votes.”

  “And the right place would be Grover’s neck,” said Jinx enthusiastically.

  But Freddy said: “No. That’s decent of you, Jacob, but we can’t have violence. You get around a lot, though. I wish you’d keep your eyes and ears open. I’d like to know why Grover is so sure of being elected.”

  “I can tell you one reason. He’s got the chicken vote sewed up.”

  “Oh, that’s just Charles,” said Jinx contemptuously. “He’s been making a lot of speeches about how birds are nature’s aristocrats and the true leaders of the animal world.”

  “Grover’s got Henrietta,” said Jacob. “He called on her yesterday and I was sitting on the roof of the henhouse and heard the conversation. He promised her that if he was elected he’d get her a revolving door for the henhouse, and Henrietta promised him all the chicken vote in return. Because she said no matter how many doors they had, the chickens were always trying to go in when others were going out and they were pushing and bumping into one another and it took half her time getting them straightened out.”

  “But he can’t give them that,” said Freddy. “It would cost money. That is something for Mr. Bean to decide on.”

  “Maybe he can’t give it to them,” said Jacob, “but he’s promised, and that’s what counts in elections. And I’ll tell you another thing, Freddy. Now that he’s got you out of the bank and can run it the way he wants to, he’s promised that every squirrel and chipmunk and field mouse that votes for him can use the vaults to store his things in free. I heard that speech. ‘I pledge you my word,’ he said, ‘that you will not have to pay one penny for that to which every creature on this farm has an inalienable right—provided he votes for me.’”

  “He promised the rabbits a large vegetable garden of their own,” said Jinx, “and what he called ‘unrestricted right of entry’ to Mr. Bean’s garden, which I took to mean that they could go in whenever they wanted to. But they didn’t fall for it. They know Mr. Bean. Still, I don’t know. Some of the rabbits are pretty silly. They might vote for him, at that.”

  Freddy thought for a minute. Then he said suddenly: “I’m going back and talk to old Whibley. He’s got ideas, if you can only get ’em out of him.”

  “Not me,” said Jinx. “I’ve had enough of his sarcastic cracks.”

  “He tells you the truth about yourself,” said Freddy. “Maybe it’d be a good idea to hear it once in a while.”

  “Not me either,” said Jacob. “My father used to tell me the truth about myself once in a while, and it was usually accompanied with a licking.”

  So Freddy went back into the woods alone. When he got to the old beech tree, old Whibley was still sitting on the same limb, apparently asleep. Freddy sat down politely and waited.

  After a while the owl said: “Well, why don’t you say something?”

  “I thought you were resting,” said Freddy. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “You came here to disturb me, didn’t you?” said old Whibley. “So evidently you wanted to. Well then, why put it off?”

  “I came to ask you a question.”

  “Same thing,” said the owl.

  “Well, anyway,” said Freddy, “I know you don’t care much about this election, and all you want is to be left alone. But I guess you like Mr. Bean, and we’re Mr. Bean’s animals, and maybe you’ll help me.” And he told the owl about his worries.

  Old Whibley apparently slept through most of it, and once Freddy was sure he saw his head nod, but when it was finished the owl spread his broad wings and flew down to a branch near the ground and said: “I like you, Freddy. Like you because you do ridiculous things. Can’t stand that Grover. He couldn’t do a ridiculous thing to save his life. That’s why he’s ridiculous all the time. Well, see here. These promises of his—revolving door in the henhouse, garden for the rabbits, cat-proof apartments for the rats next the feedbin—Oh, you hadn’t heard about that, eh? Well, how do you suppose he’s going to pay for them?”

  “He can’t,” said Freddy. “I suppose they’re just promises he can’t keep.”

  “You do, eh? You’re forgetting about the bank. Bank’s earning two or three dollars a month now, and if he charges twice as much as he does for taking care of things, the animals will pay it. And who’s that money belong to, now you’re out? Grover.”

  “Gosh, I didn’t think of that,” said Freddy. “But that isn’t enough money to build all the things he has promised.”

  “How about Mr. Bean’s money the bank has got? Suppose he used that. Mr. Bean comes back. ‘Where’s my money?’ ‘Sorry, Mr. Bean,’ says Grover. ‘We had to use that for necessary improvements.’ What’s Mr. Bean going to do? Go to law with a woodpecker? He’d rather lose his money than look as silly as that.”

  “Yes, but—” Freddy began.

  “Don’t talk,” said old Whibley severely. “Let me do the talking. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t say anything for a while—just sat there with his eyes closed, and this time Freddy was certain he heard him snore. But after a while he opened his eyes and said: “Who dug those new vaults for you?”

  “John,” said Freddy.

  “A fox,” said the owl. “H’m. Ten to one there’s another entrance to them, then. Never knew a fox to dig a hole with only one way out. ’Tisn’t natural for them. Now listen to me …”

  So Freddy listened for quite a while, and then he went off to find John.

  He found him with some of the other animals painting signs to be carried in the big Wiggins parade that evening, and drew him aside.

  “I didn’t tell you, Freddy,” said the fox, when Freddy asked him point-blank if there was another entrance to the vaults, “because I knew I oughtn’t to do it. But a fox can’t any more go into a hole that hasn’t two ways out than he can fly. He just can’t. Well, there’s a hole behind the stone wall back of the bank, and it goes straight down to the board room. It’s covered up in the board room so nobody will notice it. Now I do hope you aren’t going to say anything about it to Grover. I guess he’d be pretty sore, and—”

  “You keep as quiet about it as I do,” said Freddy, “and there’ll be no trouble. See you later.”

  Peter, the bear, was poking about among the wild raspberry bushes at the edge of the woods when Freddy found him.

  “Well, salt-and-pepper me if it isn’t Freddy!” said Peter. “Well, how are you, Freddy? That’s a foolish question, though. I can see you’re fine. Fat as butter.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” said Freddy. “I’ve heard about enough of that fat talk today.”

  “Why, what’s the matter with that? Finest compliment you can pay a bear. But we have to be fat because we sleep all winter. Well, maybe you don’t like it, but it’s very becoming to you. I was just looking over these raspberries. Doing a little pruning and so on. Going to have a nice crop next fall. You must come up and have a dish of them with me some day when they’re ripe.”

  “Like to,” said Freddy. “I expect raspberries aren’t very fattening. Say, Peter, I’ve got a little digging job I wonder if you’d do for me.”

  Peter said there was nothing he’d like better, so Freddy took him down to the stone wall behind the bank, and sure enough, there was a hole just large enough for a fox.

  “Want it enlarged to fit you, eh?” said Peter. “Let’s see, you take about a 44? Leave it to me. It’ll fit you
like a glove.” And he began digging.

  Want it enlarged to fit you, eh?

  “Not too tight,” said Freddy anxiously. “I don’t want to get stuck.”

  Peter’s head was already out of sight, and the stones and dirt were flying all around Freddy. Freddy turned his back, hunched his shoulders, and kept a sharp lookout for the woodpeckers. But he was perfectly safe; politics were absorbing the attention of every bird and animal on the farm.

  Freddy turned his attention back to the digging.

  Peter went deeper and deeper into the hole and finally disappeared, but dirt continued to fly out. It looked like a small volcano in eruption. After a while it stopped, and there was a scrabbling underground and Peter came out, head first. “There you are,” he said. “All ready for a fitting. Try it on, and if it’s a little too snug under the arms, we’ll alter it free of charge.”

  So Freddy went down. He didn’t like crawling down holes much, so he went down backwards. “If I decide to come out in a hurry,” he said to himself, “it will be pleasanter to come out head first.” But the hole wasn’t bad. It was almost straight down, but it was short, and when he got into the board room there was enough light from above so that he could look around. Not that there was much to see. The roof was a big flat rock, and the walls were dirt, with a small hole in one of them which was the tunnel up to the bank. Freddy shoved a couple of loose stones into the tunnel and packed dirt around them. “Guess the room’s woodpecker-proof now,” he said with a grin. Then he went up and thanked Peter, and after sneaking along behind the stone wall until he was some distance from the hole, came out and trotted down to the bank.

  Just as he got there, the twelve o’clock whistle blew in Centerboro, and, punctual to the second, Grover and John Quincy came out of the door.

  “Good noon, gentlemen,” said Freddy politely. “Off to lunch?”

  “Yes,” said John Quincy. “Where are you lunching, Father?”

  “I thought of trying that oak down beyond the barn,” said Grover. “The beetles are very good there.”