Freddy and the Dragon

by Walter R. Brooks

  Mrs. Talcum shook her head. “Odly letters you cad’t say are ed ad eb. Two out of tweddy-six. That aid buch.”

  “I’m going to take these gentlemen out and show them the garden, Aunt Min,” said Mrs. Peppercorn, and Mrs. Talcum dismissed them with a wave of the hand and a double-barreled sneeze.

  Mrs. Peppercorn’s garden was a mess. Flower beds and plants were uprooted and trampled, and in the vegetable garden evidently peas and beans and corn had been picked and carried off. And there too the plants had been uprooted.

  Freddy stared around in consternation. “Golly!” he said.

  “Exactly,” said Mrs. Peppercorn. “And this is only one of half a dozen gardens that have been raided in the past week. Moreover, my bicycle has been stolen; Dr. Wintersip’s house was broken into, and a pair of binoculars and a set of Dickens taken; a lot of canned goods were taken from Mrs. Winfield Church’s cellar; somebody threw a stone through Mr. Beller’s picture window.… Oh, that’s not the half of it. And you see it’s not just robbery, it’s smashing and destroying things just for the sake of destroying ’em. And, Freddy, you’ve got to find out who’s doing it.”

  “Me?” said the pig. “This is a job for the troopers.”

  Mrs. Peppercorn shook her head. “Look at the garden a little more closely,” she said.

  Freddy walked along between the rows. He bent down to see how the earth had been scooped and channeled by digging out the roots. And he knew what had happened. He knew what had done it.

  “Look here,” said Jinx, pointing down to several clear imprints of small hoofs.

  “I don’t need to,” said Freddy. “A pig rooted up this garden.”

  The old lady nodded. “Yes. And the folks in town think they know what pig.”

  “You mean—me?” Freddy exclaimed. “But I’ve been … you don’t think I—”

  “No,” she interrupted; “I don’t think you did it. That’s why I sent for you. That’s why I say you’re the one that’s got to find out who did do it. You’ve got a lot of friends in town. But there are a lot of people who are kind of on the fence about you. They say: ‘Oh, sure, he’s smart all right. But don’t forget: he’s been in and out of our jail half a dozen times. And where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’”

  “Why, sure, I’ve been in and out of jail. The sheriff’s a friend of mine. When he invites me down for a week-end, I go. He sets a good table, and he’s got a nice lot of prisoners, and we have a lot of fun.… Oh, I know, you mean that time I was arrested for stealing. But you know about that. Remember that man who pretended to be Mrs. Bean’s long-lost brother, and she was going to give him a lot of money, and I took it because I knew he was a crook? And then when we showed him up as an imposter, I gave the money back.”

  “You don’t have to defend yourself to me, Freddy,” said Mrs. Peppercorn. “But there are a lot of people who never got that story straight. All they remember is that you went to jail. And then when they find it’s a pig that has been tearing up their gardens, they say: ‘Aha! That Freddy, I bet!’”

  “And here’s another thing,” she went on. “Last Friday night Mr. Schemerhorn was up in the Big Woods along the back road looking for a lost cow, and he looked out through the trees and saw, in the moonlight, a pig, carrying a heavy sack on his shoulders.”

  “If I’d stolen a lot of stuff in Centerboro, I wouldn’t take it home along the back road,” said Freddy. “That’s way out of the way.”

  “Less traffic on the back road,” put in Jinx. “And you could cut down through the woods and by the duck pond without being seen. It’s not much longer.”

  “Yeah, but last Friday night we were a hundred miles from here, coming back from our trip.”

  “We can’t prove it,” said the cat. “After we got away from where folks knew us, everybody made such a fuss about our being talking animals that we ducked ’em, rode the back roads and cross-country. A few farmers stared at us, but how you going to get hold of them to give us an alibi?”

  Mrs. Peppercorn nodded. “You see, it’s serious, Freddy,” she said. “Some pig is up to mischief, and you’ve got to find him before you get arrested. There’s talk of that already.”

  “The only pigs around here besides me are my Cousin Ernest and his family, at the Macy farm,” said Freddy. “Ernest sleeps most of the time; he couldn’t stay awake long enough to get to Centerboro. And his son, Weedly—you remember Weedly, Mrs. P?—he’s a good boy. He wouldn’t do anything like this.”

  “It’s not any local pig,” said Mrs. Peppercorn. “But it’s a pig that wants to get you into trouble. Have you made any pig enemies?”

  Freddy shook his head, but Jinx said: “How about the pigs that came down into the woods from up north two years ago, to join the animals that revolted? Boy, they were a tough-looking gang!”

  Freddy said they’d all gone back home after the revolt was broken up. “We drove ’em out—all those rangy cows and pigs and horses. They couldn’t be around now. There’s nothing for them to live on up in the woods.”

  “Maybe they’re living on such gardens as Mrs. Peppercorn’s,” said the cat. “And they might have stayed on for revenge; they’d have it in for you, all right.”

  Mrs. Peppercorn said: “Someone raided Mrs. Lafayette Bingle’s icebox the other night. A ham was taken.”

  Freddy frowned. “No matter how low he had sunk, no pig would take a ham,” he said.

  “I was thinking of the horses you just mentioned,” Mrs. Peppercorn said. “It was a horse that kicked in Mrs. Bingle’s back door when she was at the movies and raided the icebox. She showed me the hoof marks.”

  “And I suppose they blame Cy for that,” said Jinx.

  “Mrs. Bingle does.”

  “I’d like to look at those hoof marks,” said Freddy suddenly. “You want to go over with me, Mrs. P.?” Mrs. Bingle lived just across the street.

  “I do not!” said Mrs. Peppercorn. “Sarah Bingle and I never have hit it off very well, and specially now, since she’s accusing you of burglary. You’d better go alone. And then come back and tell me what you’ve found out. Though I expect,” she added with a grim smile, “that it will be only what it feels like to be hit over the head with a broom.”

  Freddy thought that that was probably so, but he set his teeth and went around the house and across the street and into Mrs. Bingle’s yard. He was almost at the back door when from the garden a sharp voice called: “What are you doing on my property? Get out, or I’ll call the police!”

  Mrs. Bingle was a little old lady about the size of Mrs. Peppercorn, but where Mrs. Peppercorn had snapping black eyes and looked rather stern, Mrs. Bingle had greenish eyes and looked sour The bean animals were very fond of Mrs. Peppercorn, but nobody, Freddy thought, could be fond of Mrs. Bingle.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said Freddy politely, “I’d like to look at the hoof marks on the back door. I’m on the trail of the burglars who broke into your house the other night.”

  “You’re on your own trail then,” said Mrs. Bingle. “I know you; you’re that pig of Bean’s, that’s been breaking windows and stealing things all over town.” She had a hoe, which she shook threateningly at him.

  The woman had a hoe.

  But Freddy had caught sight of the hoof marks on the door. “Then you’d better call the sheriff or the troopers right away and have me arrested. I’ll stay right here, and I’ll call my horse, so you can arrest him at the same time.”

  “You will, hey?” Her grip tightened on the hoe, and for a second Freddy thought she was going to swing it at him. Then she said vindictively: “That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” and she dropped the hoe and went into the house, slamming the door behind her. It didn’t slam very well, because it hadn’t been repaired and the lock and one hinge were broken.

  Freddy whistled for Cy, then he took a pencil and paper from his pocket, went up to the door, and made a full-sized sketch of the horseshoe mark. When Cy came around the corner of the house, Freddy sho
wed it to him. “Mrs. Bingle says this is a print of your shoes. She says you kicked her back door in the other night.”

  Freddy was always surprised when Cy frowned. Some animals can frown, but horses usually don’t. Cy did though, when he was puzzled or irritated. He did now.

  “My shoe!” he exclaimed. “My shoes aren’t more’n half the size of that great clodhopper!” He held up a foot, and of course it was true—the size of shoe Freddy had drawn would fit a big farm horse, not a small western pony like Cy.

  After a few minutes a car drew up in front of the house, and then Mrs. Bingle and a state trooper came around to the back.

  “There he is, officer!” Mrs. Bingle snapped. “You can see for yourself how he smashed my door. And that pig—he’s the one that’s been causing all this trouble in town. Arrest them at once!”

  “Well now, ma’am,” said the trooper, after he had looked at the door, and then had had Cy put his hind foot down on Freddy’s drawing, “it couldn’t have been this horse. You see?—his whole foot goes inside the outline of that shoe.”

  Mrs. Bingle sniffed. “You’re kind of simple-minded for a policeman!” she said sarcastically. “Don’t you suppose he’s got sense enough to wear a different pair of shoes when he goes out burglarizing houses? He’d know the police’d compare the hoof marks with his own shoes.”

  “Horses’ shoes are nailed on, ma’am,” said the trooper. “You can’t nail a big shoe to a small hoof.”

  Once this was pointed out, it was plain even to Mrs. Bingle that Cy could not have broken her door. But this did not discourage her. “Maybe so,” she said. “Maybe so. But it ain’t just my door. There’s gardens been torn up and houses broke into all over town—money and jewelry stolen, and even some furniture. But the footprints are all of animals. Just think that over.”

  “I’ve heard some talk about it,” said the trooper. “But do you seriously believe that there’s a gang of animals behind all this raiding and vandalism?”

  “Oh, don’t ask me!” said Mrs. Bingle. “Just go around and ask some of the folks in town. They’ll tell you who’s doing it. It’s those animals of William Bean’s. And their leader is this pig here, Freddy. You arrest him now and you’ll save yourself a lot of grief.”

  The trooper scratched his head. “Don’t seem to me you have much of a case, ma’am. This horse—”

  “There’s another horse out at Beans’,” she said. “You go out and measure his shoe. And while you’re about it, search the place. You just dig around out there, and if you don’t find a lot of stolen goods, I’m much mistaken.” She started to go in the back door, then she turned. “And if you find that ham, you bring it straight back here; ’t ain’t going to be a meal for a lot of policemen.” Then she went in and slammed the door so hard that it fell all to pieces.

  Freddy swung into the saddle, but the trooper put his hand on the rein. “I understand you been out of town for a spell?”

  “That’s right,” said Freddy. “But I can’t prove where I’ve been. We were on back roads mostly, this last week.”

  The trooper frowned. “Well, it doesn’t look too good for you, and that’s a fact. I’ll have to ask you to come in for questioning. I’m not arresting you, you understand. You come down now, and I’ll go out to the farm later.”

  Freddy walked Cy to the street. Jinx, mounted on Bill, was waiting. “Come on, cat,” said Freddy, as the trooper got into his car and motioned them to precede him. “Down to troop headquarters. They’re going to put us to the torture and make us confess all our crimes.”

  “Third degree, eh?” said Jinx with a grin. “Good! Always wanted to know how that worked.”

  They jogged on down the street ahead of the police car.

  CHAPTER 3

  So Freddy and Jinx were taken to the troop headquarters, and there they were questioned closely about their movements during the past week. The questioner was a Lieutenant Sparrow, and he didn’t look much like his name, for he was a big, tough, red-faced man with a roaring voice. He yelled and stormed at them, and he said that if they didn’t confess, he would have Freddy beaten up and he would hang Jinx up by the tail and pull his whiskers out one by one.

  But the animals knew all about Lieutenant Sparrow. In spite of his rough, tough ways, he was the kindest hearted of men and, as people said, wouldn’t hurt a fly. Indeed, this was literally true. He wouldn’t allow a fly-swatter in the place, and if a fly did get in, he would open the screen door and call all the other troopers, and they would carefully shoo it out. He was really a very nice man.

  So Freddy said: “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but we haven’t been anywhere near Centerboro while all this has been going on. We can’t prove it. On the other hand, nobody can prove we were.”

  The lieutenant quieted down. “That’s where you’re wrong, pig,” he said. “There’s folks right here in town that’ll swear they saw you—and doing a lot of mischief, too. You claim it’s some other pig” He shook his head. “I’m going to have to do something about it before long. Luckily for you, there haven’t been any warrants sworn out for your arrest yet. But there’s plenty of talk. If it wasn’t that you have some good friends like the sheriff, and Mrs. Winfield Church, and Mrs. Peppercorn, there’d be a mob on its way out to lynch you by this time.”

  “Gee whiz!” said Jinx. “Is that straight, Lieut?”

  The trooper nodded. “There’s been talk of it. Of course, we’d prevent it if we could. But we might not even know about it until it was all over. Frankly, I’d feel a lot better about it if someone would swear out a warrant for you and we had you in jail. You’d be safe there.”

  “You don’t really believe we did all those things, then?” Freddy asked.

  “Who else could have done ’em? Where else around here is there a bunch of animals smart enough? But in this country a man is supposed to be innocent until he’s proved guilty. So if you ain’t going to confess, I’ll have to let you go. But keep away from Centerboro. And don’t leave the farm. I want you where I can lay my hand on you, if I want to pull you in.”

  Freddy and Jinx were pretty discouraged as they rode away. They reported to Mrs. Peppercorn, and got a description of her bicycle to give to the A.B.I., the Animal Bureau of Investigation. Freddy said he thought it ought to be easy to find as it was the only lady’s bicycle in Centerboro. Mrs. Peppercorn and her aunt came out on the porch to say good-by to them, and as they rode off Mrs. Peppercorn waved her handkerchief, and Mrs. Talcum wished them good-luck with a heavy barrage of sneezes.

  The head of the A.B.I. was a robin, Mr. J. J. Pomeroy. Freddy, since his return, hadn’t had a chance to see him, but now as soon as he got back to the farm he went to the big tree at the side of the house and rapped on the trunk.

  The Pomeroys lived on one of the lower branches, and as Freddy looked up, Mrs. Pomeroy stuck her head over the edge of the nest. “Hello, Freddy,” she said. “It’s nice to see you back. Did you have a good trip?”

  “Fine,” said Freddy. “But we’ve run into plenty of trouble here at home.”

  “Oh, you mean that bull,” said Mrs. Pomeroy.

  “Bull?” said Freddy. “What bull?”

  “Oh, haven’t you heard? Nobody knows where he came from. And he must hide out in the woods somewhere. He doesn’t belong to anybody around here. He’s just about terrorized the countryside—knocking down fences and chicken coops, and chasing other animals. He even ripped down a lot of barbed-wire fence at Witherspoons’ last night. That’s where J. J. is now—up there investigating.”

  “Does he know about the trouble in Centerboro?” Freddy asked.

  “We’ve heard about it. But he’s been too busy with that bull to do much, and we figured you’d probably catch the pig that seems to be behind it all, when you got back.”

  “Set a pig to catch a pig, eh?” said Freddy. “Well, be seeing you. Come on, Jinx.”

  They rode up toward the woods, crossed the brook, and then swung off to the right into a hayfield that bord
ered the land belonging to Mr. Witherspoon. They saw at once that a section of the barbed-wire fence between the Witherspoon and the Bean farms had been ripped out. And an enormous black bull with a ring in his nose was calmly eating the uncut hay on the Bean side of the fence. He was trampling down a lot more grass than he was eating.

  The two friends pulled up. “Golly,” said Jinx, “Mr. Bean’ll pop his suspender buttons when he sees this. But we better go down and tell him.”

  Freddy said: “No; I think we’d better handle it ourselves. You know Mr. Bean. He’ll go right up to that bull and try to put a rope through the ring in his nose. And the bull will go for him.”

  “But Mr. Bean has a shotgun.”

  “I wouldn’t want to try to stop that bull with a shotgun,” Freddy said. “Come on, let’s talk to him. We can dodge if he rushes us.”

  They rode up along the fence. The bull lifted his head. “Well, well,” he boomed, “ain’t you cute little fellers! Part of old Bean’s trained menagerie, I expect. Well, come along; plenty for all.”

  “That’s Mr. Bean’s hay you’re eating,” said Freddy.

  “You wouldn’t want to stop me, would you?” said the bull. Then he gave a great roaring laugh. “Come up closer. I won’t hurt you. I want to see those duds you got on. Regular cowboy suits, ain’t they? And I suppose you came out to round me up and drive me away, hey? I suppose I ought to go before I get hurt.” He pretended to shiver with fear, and then broke out into his roaring laugh again. He reminded Freddy a lot of Lieutenant Sparrow.

  A robin flew down and perched on the pommel of Freddy’s saddle. “Look out for this fellow, Freddy,” he said; “he can be mean. He drove Mr. Witherspoon’s horse, Jerry, out of his stable this morning and ate up his measure of oats, and then he broke open the oat bin and ate a lot more, before coming out and tearing down the fence.”

  “Hello, J. J.,” said Freddy. “Where was Mr. Witherspoon all this time?”

  “The bull chased him into the house. He took a couple of shots at him with his deer rifle, but missed both times. Then I guess the bull thought he’d better beat it, so he came over here, out of range.”