Freddy Plays Football Read online

  “I can think of nothing I’d like better,” she said heartily, and sat down again. So they got plates and forks, and straightened up the room. and then they all sat down and had the cake. And while they ate they talked about Freddy. All the prisoners liked him, and were sorry he was in trouble. And when Mrs. Church finally left, they assured her that if there was anything they could do to help him, she had only to let them know.

  “I don’t know when I’ve had such a pleasant evening,” she said to the sheriff. “You must all come to my house some evening and have a game of hide and seek. Burglars ought to be specially good at that.”

  “We’ll look forward to it, ma’am,” said the sheriff.

  Chapter 12

  On Saturday the hunt for Freddy continued. The state troopers, who didn’t know Freddy, and to whom all pigs looked pretty much alike, arrested every one they saw. They arrested thirty-four pigs on Saturday. There was a constant stream of police cars driving up to the Bean house with handcuffed pigs sitting beside the drivers. Then Mr. Bean would look at them and say they weren’t Freddy, and they would be let go. Some of them were arrested two and three times, and they were pretty sore about it. The troopers were sore too because they got kidded a lot; people would watch them drive by and call out: “Oh, look at the two pigs!” or “Which one is the trooper?” and such things. They would have quit, if Mr. Bean hadn’t offered a reward. He had signs printed and stuck up all over the countryside.

  $5.00 Reward

  For information leading

  to the Arrest of this Pig

  Bank Robber

  When last seen was wearing

  brown pants, green cap, blue

  sweater. Height, standing on

  hind legs, about 4’4”. May

  be armed!!

  William F. Bean

  Of course everybody that saw a pig called up Mr. Bean right off. He kept Hank harnessed to the buggy all day long, and as soon as a call came in he drove out to look at the pigs. He drove miles and saw more pigs than you would think possible, but he didn’t see Freddy. He saw so many that he dreamed of pigs all night long.

  Freddy, as a matter of fact, after leaving Centerboro with the money, had circled around by back roads and holed up in the old Grimby place in the Big Woods. This was the deserted house where the animals had once fought and conquered the terrible Ignormus. It was all falling to pieces, and no one ever went there any more—indeed, most people had forgotten that there was such a house. But the animals all knew it. It was a good hideout, because it was near the farm, and Freddy had posted sentinels to warn him if anyone approached. J. J. Pomeroy watched by day, and Uncle Solomon by night.

  Saturday night, Jinx came up to give Freddy the news. “Boy, is Mr. Bean sore!” he said. “It’s the sausage factory for you, kid, if they catch you. I brought you one of the signs he stuck up.”

  Freddy lit a match and looked at it. “’Tisn’t very flattering,” he said.

  “We all like it,” said Jinx. “I don’t know where they got it, but everybody says it looks more like you than you do yourself. Of course it depends on what flatters you. If you’d rather have it look less like you…”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Freddy. “Why couldn’t they have used the one that Mr. Wiese drew for Mr. Bean that time he came out? I just would like to have the picture do me justice.”

  “Justice, hey?” said the cat. “You sure would kick if it did that!” He grinned, and then said: “But say, what did you do with the money?”

  “Tied it up, and J.J. hung it up in the top of that yellow birch at the corner of the Grimby house. I guess you ought to tell Mrs. Wiggins and Hank, but I wouldn’t tell too many of them. They won’t give me away, but someone might let it slip. Like Charles—he’s an awful loose talker when he gets going.”

  Before he left, Jinx told Freddy about that afternoon’s football game. The South Pharisee team had won, 6—0. “The boys sure missed you,” he said.

  “My goodness,” Freddy said, “I forgot all about it. Well, I guess my football days are over. Mr. Bean can’t raise any more money so I’ll have to stay here till Doty gets sick of waiting for it and goes away. But even after I give it back, Mr. Bean will still be mad at me. He won’t want me around.” He sighed heavily. “I shall be just a wanderer on the face of the earth.”

  “You won’t wander far if the sheriff’s after you,” said the cat. “He may be a friend of yours, but he sure works that posse hard. Well, so long, pig. Be sure and lock the front door.”

  Of course there wasn’t any lock, there wasn’t even any door; but Freddy felt safe with Uncle Solomon on guard. He slept that night on a pile of old sacks in the Grimby attic.

  When he went out next morning, he found that Mr. Pomeroy, who was to relieve Uncle Solomon on guard duty at sunrise, hadn’t shown up. What had happened, he found later, was that the robin had mislaid his spectacles, and rather than take the time to hunt for them, had started without them. As a result he had flown into a tree and sprained a wing. Unable to fly, he had set out to hop home, where he could get Mrs. Pomeroy to fly up and take his place. But by the time Mrs. Pomeroy got there the excitement was all over.

  So Uncle Solomon had to stay on duty, and he was pretty cross about it. But as his crossness took the form of a grumpy silence, Freddy didn’t mind, for the screech owl was sometimes a trying companion. He loved to argue and there was hardly anything you could say that he couldn’t find an argument against. And then if you finally got worn out and agreed with him, he would turn right around and take your side and argue against you again. He was the only person Freddy knew who could win both sides of an argument.

  Freddy had been thinking a good deal about what was going to happen to him. He didn’t think Mr. Bean would ever let him come back to the farm. He would indeed be a wanderer on the face of the earth. But the more he thought about it, the more the idea pleased him in a mournful sort of way. It made him, he felt, a very romantic figure, leading a sad, gipsy life, a lonely pig, with a secret sorrow in his heart.

  As it was Sunday, Freddy didn’t think the sheriff’s posse would be out looking for him. He thought he would walk down to the pool where Theodore lived. For he had it in mind to write a poem about the gipsy pig, and some of his best poems had been written on the grassy bank beside that pool.

  So he went down through the Big Woods, followed by the watchful but grumpy—and by now, rather sleepy—Uncle Solomon. He crossed the back road, and walked along through the green silence of the Bean woods, murmuring the words to himself and beating out the rhythm with one fore-trotter.

  Theodore was glad to see Freddy. “They haven’t c-captured you yet, I see,” he said. “Well, you don’t have to bub-bub, I mean bother about the troopers. They’ve given up, according to what I hear. Too busy answering mail. I understand they had eight mail sacks full of letters last night, from people all over the country who think they’ve seen you and want the reward. There was even a b-batch of air mail letters from California. They claim it would take eight years to investigate all these pigs.”

  “That’s the trouble with detective work,” said Freddy. “Too many clues are worse than none at all.” He sat down beside the pool. He wanted to recite his poem to Theodore. But you can’t just say: “Want to hear my new poem?”, because maybe the other person says No, and then you recite anyway and he gets mad. So he said: “Learned any new songs lately?” For Theodore had quite a fine bass voice, and he collected songs, the way some people collect stamps. He had some very rare old songs that went way back to the sixteenth century—and the nice thing about them was, he said, that they didn’t cost anything, and that you always had them with you, and didn’t have to protect them against burglars, because nobody could burgle your head.

  If the frog had said Yes, Freddy would have had to listen to the new song. But he said No. So Freddy said: “Well, I was just thinking—there’s a little thing of mine—oh, it’s nothing much—but I was thinking if it was set to music—” And he bega
n hastily to recite.

  … and he began hastily to recites:

  “Through the night, through the dark, through the rain and sleet,

  By hill and valley and plain,

  Plods the wanderer pig, on weary feet—”

  “And his poetry gives me a pain,” interrupted Uncle Solomon, from his lookout on a branch above the pool.

  “Oh, keep still!” said Freddy.

  “And his tears they drip like rain,”

  he concluded.

  “Personally,” said Uncle Solomon, “I prefer my version. It avoids the use of the word ‘they,’ which is unnecessary, and it is more solidly constructed. However, as you were no doubt about to point out, it is a criticism of your poem, which, just as it is, heaven knows, is at the moment out of place. H’m, let me see. How’s this? ‘The pig with the infantile brain.’ More descriptive. I assume, of course, that it is yourself whom you are describing and not some other pig, to whom it might not apply.”

  Theodore giggled, but Freddy shrugged and went on.

  “And he sighs, and he moans, and his head bends low,

  And his tail has come uncurled,

  For he has neither mansion nor bungalow—

  Not a home in the whole wide world.

  “Got you that time!” he said with a triumphant glance at the owl, who evidently hadn’t been able to think of a rhyme quick enough.

  “Not a home, not a friend, no uncles or aunts,

  No brothers or sisters or cousins—”

  “Not a coat, not a vest, not a pair of pants,”

  said Uncle Solomon.

  “OK, you’re so smart; finish it,” said Freddy.

  “I merely suggest,” said the owl; “I do not complete. I know quite well that there is only one correct rhyme to ‘cousins’. It is ‘dozens.’”

  Freddy expressed surprise. “I didn’t know you knew so much about poetry.”

  “I know a great deal about words. It is not the same thing. However, proceed.”

  Freddy went on.

  “Though happier pigs, as they sing and dance,

  Have relatives by dozens.”

  “Personally,” said the owl, “I have not found that a multiplicity of relatives is conducive to gaiety. But continue.”

  “For others, the lights in the windows gleam,

  For others, the fried eggs sputter;

  For—”

  “For the pig, all puffed up with self-esteem,

  A roll in the muddy gutter.”

  And Uncle Solomon gave his dry little titter. “Rather neat, I think. Your mention of food suggested the roll though in general I consider puns rather vulgar.”

  “What was your verse, Freddy?” the frog asked.

  “For others, the coffee with lots of cream,

  And the toast, with lots of butter.”

  “It has always struck me as significant,” remarked Uncle Solomon, “that in all poetry written by lower animals—I distinguish them thus from humans and from birds—there is an intense preoccupation with food. For your benefit, Theodore,” he said, looking down at the frog who had his mouth open, and was scratching his head with his little green fingers, “I will elucidate.”

  “You needn’t bub-bother,” said Theodore.

  “It is no trouble,” said the owl graciously. “I suggest merely that the chief interest of the lower animal is food. His mind seldom rises to higher things. His eyes, if I may so express it, are on the dinner table, rather than lifted to the stars. The poem to which we have just been privileged to listen illustrates this very clearly. This pig, this friendless outcast—why do his tears drip like rain? (And I may remark parenthetically that tears dripping like rain is a very ordinary and hackneyed expression.)”

  “Maybe you could improve on it,” said Freddy crossly. He sometimes rather enjoyed these arguments with Uncle Solomon, but nobody likes to have a poem he has just made pulled to pieces.

  “I could,” said the owl. “If you say: ‘By hill and valley and mountain, His tears they flow like a fountain.’ Or: ‘By hill and valley and highland, His tears turn him into an island.’ But to return to my theme. The pig weeps. Does he weep for his friends, for his vanished home? Mildly—yes he does—mildly. And with—I may remark—a quite sickening sentimentality. But it is the food that really gets him going. He weeps for food—rich food. And that, I submit, quite proves my case. I will say nothing of the dreadful false modesty of our poet, who—”

  He stopped short. They had all been so occupied with his remarks that they had not heard the rustlings and snapping of twigs in the woods behind them. But at that moment, Mr. Garble stepped out from behind a tree. “I’ve got you this time, pig,” he said, and pointed a large pistol at Freddy’s head.

  Chapter 13

  When Mr. Garble had learned from Mr. Doty that Freddy suspected them of plotting to get Mr. Bean’s money, he was pretty nervous. And when Freddy called, pretending to be the real Aaron Doty, he had got good and scared. He had a lot of respect for Freddy’s detective ability, and he saw trouble ahead. When Freddy took the five thousand dollars and disappeared he saw his chance. He joined the sheriff’s posse.

  The sheriff knew pretty well what Freddy was up to, but it was his duty to catch him if he could. He and his men had combed the country around the Bean farm pretty thoroughly, but they had not yet gone into the Big Woods. Mr. Garble wanted to search them on Sunday, but the sheriff had said No, Sunday was a day of rest. “I don’t ever chase criminals on Sunday,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I don’t see why a criminal shouldn’t get Sunday off as much as anybody else.”

  So Mr. Garble went out alone. He came down from the north through the Big Woods, and searched the Grimby house, and having found no clues, kept on and cut across the back road just about where Freddy had. It was then, as he was working down through the Bean woods, that he heard voices. He crept forward, and there at the pool he saw Freddy.

  Of course Freddy didn’t know, when Mr. Garble’s pistol was pointed at his head, that it wasn’t loaded. So he just stood very still. There was a plop as Theodore dove into the pool. But the owl didn’t stir.

  “OK.” Mr. Garble motioned up the hill with his pistol. “After you, my fat friend.”

  “But-but why are we going this way?” Freddy asked. For he supposed that Mr. Garble would take him down to the farmhouse, then call the sheriff.

  Mr. Garble showed his teeth in a sneering smile. “Why it’s such a fine day, that I thought we’d go for a little ride. And then, instead of being locked up in a stuffy jail, I’ve planned a trip for you. A nice long trip. You’re going to see the Great West—won’t that be nice?—Now get going!” he snapped.

  So Freddy turned and went. He felt pretty sick. He wasn’t going to be any wanderer on the face of the earth. He was going to be nailed up in a crate and shipped off to Montana. This time Mr. Garble was going to succeed. For he didn’t see any escape. His verses seemed pretty silly now; instead of weeping, a wanderer pig ought to be kicking up his heels and singing for joy. But it shows how low he was that he didn’t give a thought to changing the poem.

  In the meantime, Uncle Solomon after waiting to see in which direction Freddy went, had dived into the air and was winging it straight as an arrow for the cow barn. He was there in a matter of seconds. “Freddy is captured!” he called as he shot in the door. “Garble’s taking him up through the Big Woods toward Schermerhorns’. Up and after ’em! Come on—everybody out!”

  There was no time to raise the flag and call the animals together. As the cows trotted out of the barn and started up the lane, the owl flew off to warn the dogs and Hank and Bill and whoever else was in the barnyard. But he didn’t think the rescue party could do much. Garble probably had his car somewhere near the Big Woods; he would have Freddy in it before they could catch him; and anyway, he had a pistol. There was one thing that might help, though. As soon as he had given the alarm, he started for Centerboro.

  On the way he reproached himself bitterly, for
he was really very fond of Freddy. “Solomon,” he said to himself, “you have been inexcusably lax and remiss and negligent. It was your duty to keep watch for the enemy; instead, you abandoned that duty for an argument about an inferior poem. You are a fool, Solomon; a corrupt and perfidious traitor, a rogue, a scalawag, and a black-hearted, pie-eyed dope.” It shows how upset he was that he used several slang words in his denunciation of himself.

  When the owl flew in the office window, the sheriff was leaning back in his big chair with a toothpick in his mouth and his eyes closed.

  “Sheriff!” Uncle Solomon called in his quick gabble. “Garble’s got Freddy! Come on—hurry up or we’ll be too late!”

  The sheriff slowly took the toothpick from his mouth and said sleepily, and without opening his eyes: “Too late? You mean for church? Well now, that’s too bad. Guess we can’t go. Don’t want to disturb everybody, comin’ in late.” And he went to sleep again.

  Uncle Solomon flew over and perched on his shoulder and gave a loud screech in his ear.

  The sheriff started up. “Hey now, look,” he said, “that ain’t any way to act. I told you at breakfast, Looey, I didn’t think I’d ought to go today. On account of my Adam’s apple durin’ the singin’. I—” Then at last he caught sight of the owl. “Hunh!” he said in a puzzled tone. “You ain’t Looey.”

  “No, and I’m not urging you to go to church,” said Uncle Solomon. “I am requesting in words of one syllable to hop to it! Garble’s captured Freddy.”

  At that the sheriff finally woke up all over. And two minutes later, with the owl beside him on the front seat, he drove out of the jail gate.

  The sheriff shouted above the noise of the engine. “If Garble’s kidnapin’ Freddy, I know where he’ll head for—his shack at the east end of the lake. His road crosses this one a couple miles up. If we’re in time we’ll cut him off at the corners.”

  When they reached the corners there was no sign of Mr. Garble. Uncle Solomon circled up in a spiral, hovered for a moment then shot down again. “Something going on up this left-hand road. Can’t make out just what, but—” The rest of the sentence was lost in the roar of the engine as the sheriff swung the wheel to the left and shoved down the accelerator.