The Story of Freginald Page 8

  “You, sir,” said Henny, and blushed. Of course he didn’t actually blush, for a rabbit’s face is covered with white fur, but he looked as if he was blushing, which amounts to the same thing.

  “Indeed?” said Leo. “And will you tell me what you were thinking?”

  “Well, sir, I—I know a little girl who has hair the same color as your mane,” said Henny.

  “Yes?” said Leo, shaking his head self-consciously so that his mane would fall more gracefully over his shoulders. “Don’t be afraid to say what you are thinking.”

  “Well, sir,” said Henny, “I was thinking that—now, that if you had your mane combed and curled every day the way she does, it wouldn’t—well, it would look nicer.”

  Leo, who had been expecting a compliment, looked a little foolish and said: “H’m, ha. Well, yes. I dare say.” And Louise giggled.

  But Leo got up and, ignoring Henny, said: “I think, if you don’t mind, I will take a little walk through your magnificent woods. I always take a walk and a little nap in the afternoon. I will be back later.” And he strolled off.

  CHAPTER 12

  Freginald and his friends started back to the circus the next morning. It wasn’t far, and as it was a beautiful day, they decided to go around by Hilldale and get a soda and do a little window-shopping on the way. Main Street was bright and fluttering with bunting and flags, for the mayor always proclaimed a holiday when the circus came to town, and there was a big arch across the street by the Hilldale Palace Hotel with “Welcome Boomschmidt” on it.

  Freginald and Leo went into the drug store to get their soda. They took chocolate and sent out a raspberry one to Louise, who was too big to come in. Freginald talked to Leo, but pretty soon he saw that the lion was not listening, but was looking out of the window with a dreamy expression. Freginald looked too, but there wasn’t anything to be seen but a lot of people standing around and watching Louise eat her soda.

  “What are you thinking about so solemnly, my little man?” said Freginald with a grin.

  Leo started, and then he smiled and said: “That’s funny, Fredg. You know, I was just thinking about that rabbit. That place over there—” He pointed a claw toward the other side of the street. And then, without explaining, he gulped down the rest of his soda and went out of the store.

  Freginald said: “Charge it to Mr. Boomschmidt” to the proprietor and followed his friend. Leo crossed the street and went straight to the door of Ye Elite Beauty Shoppe. Freginald hesitated a minute, then went in after him. Leo was already sitting in a chair in one of the booths with a white cloth around his neck as if he was going to have his hair cut, and a young lady with beautiful yellow hair was flourishing a comb over his head. Before Freginald could speak to his friend, another young lady came up and asked what she could do for him.

  “Oh, he’s just waiting for me,” said Leo.

  “Wouldn’t you like to have a manicure while you’re waiting?” asked the young lady. “Your friend will be some time. He’s having a permanent.”

  “Why, I guess—” Freginald began.

  “Sure, Fredg, have a manicure,” said Leo.

  And before he knew it Freginald was sitting opposite a third young lady at a little table with his forepaws in a small basin of water.

  Freginald didn’t like the manicure very much, particularly the filing, which set his teeth on edge. The young lady was quite a talker and she rattled on about the circus and how her young man was going to take her to that evening’s performance. “And I suppose we will see you, won’t we, Mr. Freginald? Do you really write all that lovely poetry for Mr. Boomschmidt? I have always thought that if I had the time I would like to write poetry. I expect I could, too. People always tell me what good letters I write. And I do write quite poetic descriptions, I think. Mrs. Wingitz—that’s our minister’s wife—says that good descriptive writing is the highest form of art. Do you think that is so?”

  Freginald tried to be polite and answer her, but she didn’t seem to expect any answers, for she went right on without waiting for them. So then he didn’t listen any more, but began to make up a poem:

  Some people talk in a telephone

  And some people talk in a hall;

  Some people talk in a whisper,

  And some people talk in a drawl;

  And some people talk-and-talk-and-talk-and-talk-and-talk

  And never say anything at all.

  He had got as far as this when a man came out of one of the booths toward the back of the shop. He was a tall, sinister-looking man with a long, curly, black mustache. When he saw Freginald he stopped short and looked at him very hard, and then he said: “Be you one of Mr. Boomschmidt’s animals?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Freginald.

  “Thought you must be,” said the man, showing his teeth in a smile that was meant to be kindly, but which was really rather terrifying. “Hain’t seen you before, hev I?”

  Freginald wondered why the man was trying to talk like a farmer. He had seen enough country people in his travels to know that this wasn’t farmer talk, although it was intended to sound like it.

  “I guess not,” he said.

  The man looked at Freginald for a minute, then he turned and went back into the booth, where he could be heard whispering to someone. After a little while he came out again. “Wa’al,” he said, “I must be gettin’ back to my farm.” He clapped Freginald on the back. “Drop in and see me if you get time after the show, for a doughnut and a glass of milk. My place is ’bout a quarter of a mile up Main Street and then turn left at the schoolhouse. Anybody’ll show you.”

  “Thank you,” said Freginald, “but you didn’t tell me your name.”

  “Didn’t I? Well, so I didn’t. Well, well. My name, now? Well—” he stared out the window for a moment—“just ask for Ezra Hamburger. Good day, young bear.” And he went out.

  “I don’t believe that was his name at all,” said Freginald. “Look.” And he pointed to where, across the street, a sign on a lunchroom window said: “The Biggest Hamburger Sandwich in Town.” “I think he made it up.”

  “He’s a perfect stranger to me,” said the young lady indifferently. “Don’t many men come into a beauty shop, anyway. Now, what color would you like your nails?”

  Freginald said he guessed he wouldn’t have them tinted, and as the young lady had now finished with him, he walked in to take a look at Leo. The lion was lying back in the chair with his eyes closed. The hair of his mane was separated into little strands which were tied into a big metal contraption that hung over his head. Freginald told him about the man, but Leo hadn’t seen him.

  “I heard some man in the next booth,” he said. “He was having his hair waved and his mustache curled. Then he came back and whispered to the young lady not to tell you that was what he had come in here for. It did seem to me as if that voice was familiar, but I don’t know anybody by the name of Hamburger.”

  Freginald decided that he wouldn’t wait any longer for Leo, so he left the shop. Louise had gone when he got outside, and he started back for the circus. He was a little ashamed of his shiny nails, and as he walked along he tried to hide them, but a bear can’t draw his claws in, the way a cat can, and a good many people stopped to look at them and say: “My, my! You’re all shined up for the show tonight, Freginald.”

  But as he got out toward the edge of town, he met fewer people and he had more time to wonder about the man in the beauty shop. Why had he pretended to be a farmer and given a false name? And why hadn’t he wanted anyone to know that he was having his mustache curled? And then suddenly Freginald stopped short and forgot all about his nails. For all at once it came to him that this man must be the one that Madame Delphine had warned him against when she told his fortune. “Beware of a tall, dark man. With a long mustache. He brings trouble.” That was what she had said.

  Now Freginald was a pretty sensible bear, and he knew the best way to beware of anything was not to turn your back and run away from it. It was to
find out all you could about it, and then you were prepared for the trouble when it came. So he turned around and went back to Main Street and then up Main Street to the schoolhouse, where he turned left into a little narrow lane.

  He didn’t really expect that he would find a man named Ezra Hamburger living up that lane, but he thought that there must be some reason why the man had given him such careful directions. So he walked along very slowly and very cautiously, keeping in the shelter of the trees and stone walls so that he could see without being seen. Once he met a squirrel and asked him if he knew anybody in the neighborhood named Hamburger. The squirrel said: “Naw, this road just goes to the deserted mill,” and then threw a last year’s hickory nut at him and yelled: “Shiny-toes! Sissy-toes!” after him until he was out of sight.

  The road got more and more overgrown and gloomy, and Freginald went more and more warily, stopping every few yards to listen. And pretty soon through the trees he saw a pond, and beside it a gray, tumbledown building that must be the mill. But he also saw something else. For at the edge of the pond was a circus wagon, which looked just like Mr. Boomschmidt’s wagons except that it had no name on it and was painted blue and gold instead of red and gold. A horse was tied to one wheel, and on a camp stool beside the door sat the man who had said his name was Hamburger. He was looking at himself in a hand mirror.

  Freginald crept as close as he dared, then lay down and watched. The man tried looking proud, then he tried looking fierce, and then he tried looking sarcastic. “Splendid, splendid!” he said, nodding to himself in the glass. And then he tried looking benevolent, but that didn’t work very well. After that he took his hat off and tried them all over bareheaded and congratulated himself warmly when they were good. “You’re a fine-looking man, Mortimer, you can’t deny it,” he said. Then he turned to the left and looked at himself and then to the right, and after that he tried to see the back of his head. He didn’t seem to realize that you can’t possibly see the back of your own head with only one mirror, and he turned and twisted and finally lay down and held the mirror over his head. But of course it wasn’t any use, and he hurt his neck. Then he jumped up and threw the mirror down and stamped on it, gnashing his teeth. He had a pretty bad temper all right.

  Behind the trees on the other side of the pond there was something going on, but Freginald couldn’t make out what it was. There were a lot of confused sounds of people moving around and once he was almost sure he heard a tiger growl. Only, of course, he couldn’t have, because all the tigers would be down at the circus grounds now, getting ready for the show. He ought to be getting back himself pretty soon.

  He was just beginning to back out of the bushes where he had been lying when another man came round the edge of the pond. He was all dressed up in a blue uniform with epaulets and shiny black boots and a white plume sticking up straight in the front of his hat. He came up to the wagon and said: “We’re all ready, Mr. Hackenmeyer.”

  The first man gave one more jump on what was left of the mirror and then he said: “We’ve got a couple of hours yet, Lucky. Anyway, I want to wait awhile. One of Mr. Boomschmidt’s bears may come up here. I invited him to drop in after the show.” Freginald noticed that he wasn’t trying to talk farmer talk any more.

  “But what makes you think he’ll come?”

  “I promised him doughnuts,” said Mr. Hackenmeyer with a leer, and both men laughed.

  “What do you want him for?” asked Lucky.

  “He saw me getting my mustache curled. Won’t do to have him spreading that around town. Make me look silly.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. You’re certainly a card, Mr. Hackenmeyer,” said Lucky. “Who else would ever have thought of trapping animals with doughnuts! And I suppose you’ve trapped hundreds with ’em.”

  “Thousands,” said Mr. Hackenmeyer. “They can’t resist ’em. And the joke of it is you don’t even have to give ’em the doughnut. You just tell ’em you will. Why, I don’t ever have any doughnuts. Haven’t even seen one for years. Anyway, I hate the things myself. That’s a funny thing, ain’t it?”

  “Funniest thing I ever heard,” said Lucky, laughing harder than ever. He seemed very anxious to please Mr. Hackenmeyer, who looked at him sharply and said:

  “I don’t mean funny in that way. It ain’t necessary to laugh so hard. I mean it’s queer.”

  “Ah, queer,” said Lucky, sobering down and shaking his head. “Yes, sir, it certainly is queer. Queer as Dick’s hatband.”

  “But I’m not taking any chances this time,” said Mr. Hackenmeyer. “It’s just possible that bear don’t like doughnuts. So I sent Pedro to bring him in if he don’t start this way.”

  When Freginald heard this he decided he had got enough information about Mr. Hackenmeyer. If this Pedro had been on his trail all the time, he had better make himself scarce. He turned around to sneak away as quietly as possible. But there in the road just behind him was a man.

  He was a short square man with long, black hair. He looked like an Indian. In his hand he had three pieces of light rope about four feet long, tied together at one end, which he held. The free ends, which swung gently back and forth, were fastened to three fairly heavy metal balls.

  Freginald didn’t think he looked very dangerous and started to run. The man threw up his arm, whirled the balls three or four times around his head, and let them go. And the next thing Freginald knew, he was lying on the ground, struggling to get loose from the ropes, which had wound themselves tightly about him.

  But it was no good. One of the metal balls had hit him in the side and knocked the wind out of him, and before he could get to his feet the man had pounced on him and tied him up tight. A shrill whistle brought Mr. Hackenmeyer and Lucky.

  “Well, young bear,” said Mr. Hackenmeyer, looking down at him, “so you came to get your doughnut, did you? Well, I’ll tell you a joke! There aren’t any doughnuts. So we’ll just keep you with us until the cook makes some. Eh, Lucky? You know when that will be.” And he smiled his wicked smile.

  “Ha ha!” roared Lucky, doubling up with laughter. “That’s a good one, that is. Sure, I know. Haw, haw, haw!”

  “Lucky, you stay with him until the wagons get here,” said Mr. Hackenmeyer, turning away. “We’ll put him in with Rajah. That’ll keep him quiet. Come, Pedro.”

  “With Rajah!” exclaimed Lucky, suddenly becoming sober. “Well, but—”

  “But what?” snapped Mr. Hackenmeyer.

  “Why, he’s only a young bear, sir. He—”

  “You heard what I said,” interrupted Mr. Hackenmeyer coldly. “He goes in with Rajah.” And he started back toward the pond, followed by Pedro.

  “I don’t like it,” said Lucky, sitting down on a stump and shaking his head. “I don’t like it at all.”

  “What don’t you like?” said Freginald. “And what do you want to keep me here for? I haven’t done anything to you.”

  “Oh, you can talk, can you?” said Lucky. “Oh, sure, of course you can. I sort of forget animals can do anything but snarl and growl and roar, I’ve been with Hackenmeyer so long. Well, no, you haven’t done anything to us. But you’ve found out something about Mr. Hackenmeyer that he don’t want anybody to know. That’s why we’re keeping you.”

  “You mean about going into a beauty shop to get his hair waved and his mustache curled?” Freginald asked. “Why, I wouldn’t tell anybody about that if he didn’t want me to.”

  “You wouldn’t, eh?” said Lucky, looking at him sharply. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. You bears are pretty honest. H’m, well, now look here, bear. Suppose I say I’ll let you go if you promise never to say anything about it to anybody? Not anybody at all, you understand, ever. Eh? How about it?”

  “Of course I’ll promise,” said Freginald. “But why would you do it? Won’t it get you into trouble?”

  “Trouble? Well, a little, maybe. But don’t worry about me. I’ve got enough on old Hackenmeyer to—Well, never mind that. But he hadn’t ought to p
ut you in with Rajah.”

  “Who’s Rajah?” Freginald asked.

  “A tiger. Oh yes, I know, you’re not afraid of tigers. But this isn’t one of Boomschmidt’s tigers. Rajah’s a rough, tough, mean old brute with a worse temper than Hackenmeyer’s, and if you don’t want to end up as a rug on somebody’s parlor floor, you won’t climb into any cage with him.”

  “Well, but I don’t understand,” said Freginald. “What has Mr. Hackenmeyer got a tiger for?”

  “Don’t ask so many questions,” said Lucky, bending over him and beginning to untie the rope. “Now, I’m going to take a chance on you and let you go. I’ll tell him you escaped. But remember; not a word to any man, woman, child, animal, or insect. I know it seems pretty unimportant, but a man in Mr. Hackenmeyer’s position has to be careful. He can’t afford to have people laugh at him, and you know how they’d laugh if they heard it. I don’t know what he wants to do it for, myself. Personally I like straight hair on a man. But that’s the way he is—always running to beauty shops.—Well, there you are. Head for home, now, and scratch dirt. And remember! You promised.”

  So Freginald promised again and thanked Lucky and said maybe he could do something for him some time. And then he galloped off down the road.

  CHAPTER 13

  When he got back to the wide sunny meadow beside the river where the circus tents were pitched, the people were already pouring into the entrance of the big tent. In the street formed by the double line of wagons of the menagerie a number of people still lingered, chatting with the animals, and as he turned into it, Freginald saw that there was some sort of commotion at the other end.