“Well, Henry,” he said, “you’ve got some competition out our way.”
Mr. Weezer was a small neat man with white hair, starched cuffs, and gold-rimmed nose glasses that fell off whenever you mentioned a sum of money larger than ten dollars.
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bean, “don’t my animals beat all? They’ve opened a bank.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Weezer in a dry voice. He didn’t smile, but Mr. Bean didn’t mind, because Mr. Weezer never smiled unless you paid him something. He was not an unkind man, though—just terribly interested in banking.
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bean, “a regular bank. And they’ve got safe-deposit vaults that no burglar could ever get into.”
“You don’t tell me,” said Mr. Weezer.
“I do tell you,” said Mr. Bean, “and furthermore I tell you that they’re the smartest animals in the country. I was kind of hesitating about taking that trip abroad together with Mrs. Bean and the boys though Mrs. Bean has her heart so set on it; but my land! animals that can run a regular bank can certainly look after a farm for half a year.”
“I should think they could,” admitted Mr. Weezer. “Well, I’ll try to bear up under the competition. I expect they won’t cut into our business a great deal.”
“Don’t ye be too sure,” said Mr. Bean. “They’ve got deposits now of $179.42.”
Mr. Weezer’s glasses fell off, but he put them on again hurriedly and looked sharply at Mr. Bean. “What!” he exclaimed. “Animals have put that much money in a bank?”
“Animals and folks. They’ve got at least one man as depositor, I know.”
“Oh, but look here,” said Mr. Weezer excitedly, “they can’t do that, Mr. Bean. This is a real bank you’re talking about. There isn’t room for two real banks in Centerboro. Oh, dear me, I must ask you to stop it at once.”
“Now hold your horses, Henry,” said Mr. Bean. “If my animals want to start a bank, they can start a bank. They got as good a right as you have.”
“They have no right to cut into our business here,” said Mr. Weezer angrily. “I won’t have it! I’ll take it up with the authorities—”
Mr. Bean got up. “Stuff and nonsense!” he said. “I thought you’d like the idea, Henry. Smart animals. Credit to the town.”
But Mr. Weezer didn’t feel that way about it at all. He said again that he was going to complain to the authorities, and he picked up the telephone and called the authorities up. But Mr. Bean got mad, and he walked out to the cashier’s window and drew out all his money, which amounted to $4,845.92 and he drove back and deposited it in the First Animal.
So at the end of that day the deposits of the First Animal Bank of Centerboro came to a grand total of $5,025.44 as you can figure out for yourself. Only you won’t come out right unless you remember that while Mr. Bean was in town a rabbit had brought in a dime to deposit.
IV
On the other side of the stone wall that divided the orchard from the back pasture stood an old gnarled apple tree. There was a hole in the trunk right by the ground, and in it lived a fox named John.
John was one of the woods animals who had come down to live on the farm because they wanted to take part in the gay social life of the farm animals. A great many squirrels had moved down, and several porcupines and coons, and even Peter, the bear, often came down for a week when there was something special going on. When John had first moved into the apple tree, Charles, the rooster, and his wife, Henrietta, had been very much upset. For there is nothing that a fox would rather have for supper than a nice plump chicken. Unless it is two plump chickens. But a committee, consisting of Robert and Mrs. Wiggins, had called on John and made him promise to leave the chickens alone. John promised readily enough, for he liked society, and there wasn’t much of that up in the wild and lonely woods. And anyway he didn’t specially care for chicken. What he really liked was duck. But he didn’t tell the committee that.
The hole in the apple tree was pretty small. It was so small that John could just get himself in when he curled up tight. And even then he had to leave his bushy tail outside. But he didn’t mind. “For,” he said, “I’m not in it very much. I spend most of my time outdoors when I’m awake. All I really need is a place to sleep.”
One afternoon Freddy left the bank early and trotted off down through the orchard. He sprang over the wall as lightly as a cat. For although Freddy was getting fat, he exercised regularly and, like many fat people, was very light on his feet. He was a wonderful dancer.
As he walked toward the apple tree he paused to admire the cloud effects, and he murmured a verse or two of poetry to himself. Like most pigs, he was extremely artistic. He often felt that he might have been a great painter if he had only had time to turn his hand to it. “A lovely bank of clouds,” he said to himself as he moved on, and then he shook his head crossly. “Now, why did I say ‘bank’! Good gracious, can’t I get my mind off business for a second?”
When he came to the tree he saw a reddish, bushy tail sticking out of the hole, and he was about to knock when he noticed a small sign tied to the end of the tail. The sign said: “Out.”
The sign said OUT
“Oh, dear,” said Freddy, “now I’ll have to come back again this evening.” And he was about to turn away when the tail was whisked in and then pushed out again immediately with another sign on it which said: “In.”
So Freddy knocked on the tree.
The tail was withdrawn again and John’s sharp little nose poked out. “Why, Freddy,” said the fox, “this is a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in! No, just a minute. I have to come out first.” For his house was so small that if he wanted to entertain anybody in it he had to sit outside himself.
“Let’s just sit out here together,” said the pig.
So they sat down under the apple tree, which was covered with white blossoms, and Freddy said: “Why the signs, John? I could see you were in, with your tail sticking out in plain sight.”
“That’s just the trouble,” said the fox. “It’s the only drawback to this house. Of course I’m always in to you, Freddy, when you come to call, but there are some animals that come—well, I name no names. But you know how it is—they just never go home. Now if I had a regular-sized house, I just wouldn’t answer when they knocked, or my butler would go and tell them I was not at home. But when they can see me—well, I thought if I had the signs made, then when they saw it read: ‘Out,’ they’d understand I wasn’t seeing anybody and go away.”
“Does it work?” asked Freddy.
“No. That is, with some of the more polite ones it does. But there are some— Why, that skunk, Sniffy Wilson, came yesterday. I had the ‘Out’ sign on my tail. But do you think he went away? He did not. He actually pulled my tail until I answered him. Said he thought it was a doorbell. Some people simply don’t know how to behave, Freddy; that’s all there is about it.”
“Sniffy’s kind of free and easy, and that’s a fact,” said Freddy. “But he’s a good fellow—always willing to help you out if you’re in a jam. Well, that’s one reason I came over to see you today. We’re in sort of a jam at the bank. We’ve got to have some more vaults built, and this time it’s a job for highly skilled labor—it’s no woodchuck proposition. The rooms are full now, and even the tunnel is so cluttered up with stuff that the clerks can hardly get through. You’re just the animal for the job, if you’ll take it.”
Freddy was very diplomatic. He knew how to make people want to do the things he wanted them to do. John felt very much flattered, and he agreed at once to come and do the necessary digging. So they gossiped for a while and then John said:
“There’s some talk up in the woods, Freddy, that you’ve given up the idea of founding a republic and electing a president. I hope that isn’t so.”
“No,” said Freddy, and he explained that they had merely taken John Quincy’s advice about getting the bank going first. “It’s sound advice, I think,” said the pig. “Once we start having election s
peeches and going out after votes, nobody is going to pay much attention to the bank. But I think we will get at it pretty soon now.”
“Well, I hope so,” said the fox. “And of course it’s none of my business—well, in a way it is, of course, because I’m a citizen of the republic, if there is a republic, and—well—”
“Well, go ahead,” said Freddy. “You’re among friends.”
“Well,” said John, “I wouldn’t take too much woodpecker advice, if I were you. I don’t trust those boys, and that’s a fact. Don’t ask me why. It’s just a feeling. Don’t you have those feelings?”
“Why, now you mention it,” said Freddy, “I guess I do. Weasels, now. I don’t trust weasels. And yet I haven’t any reason not to, really. I don’t know much about them. They may be the kindest, nicest people in the world. But somehow—”
“Yes,” said John. “That’s how I feel about woodpeckers. Well, anyway, I just thought I’d mention it.”
“Glad you did,” said Freddy. “Glad you did. I’ll keep it in mind. Well, I guess I must be getting back.”
So he said good-by, and John hung the “Out” sign on the end of his tail and crawled back into his house and took a nap.
When Freddy got back to the bank, Jinx, who had not been in all day, was still not there, and John Quincy was very much upset. “We’ve got to do something about Jinx, Freddy,” he said. “He’s supposed to be here from ten to three, just like the rest of us. But sometimes he doesn’t come in for days at a time.”
Freddy’s ears turned pink, for he had not been any too punctual himself. He seldom got up before ten o’clock in the morning, and by the time he had done his exercises and had a leisurely breakfast and worked awhile at his poetry and at his plans for the election, it was time for dinner, and then after dinner there was his nap, and various other things to be seen to, so that he often didn’t get to the bank before half past two. And the bank closed at three.
“Oh, well,” he said, “we mustn’t be too hard on Jinx. After all, there’s always somebody here—”
“There’s always me here,” said John Quincy. “Not that I mind the extra work, but it’s the principle of the thing. Ten to three; those are our hours. And we’re all supposed to be here.—Ah, here he is now,” he said, as Jinx poked his head in the door.
“Hi, gents,” said the cat breezily. “Boy, what a day! What a day I’ve had! Ah, spring, spring! I made a poem about it, Freddy.
Hooray for the spring! What a glorious feeling!
All the little lambs on the hillsides squealing!
Tighten up your braces! Tuck in your shirt!
All the little green things growing in the dirt!
I didn’t really see any lambs, though. Spent most of the day chasing butterflies. Ah, what is more uplifting, my friends, than to sally forth in the glorious springtide and chase butterflies across the hills of Bean!”
“Indeed!” said John Quincy dryly. “And while you have been enjoying the spring, I have been slaving here in a stuffy office.”
“The more fool you,” said Jinx. “Anyway, you like to slave and stuff, doesn’t he, Freddy?”
“Please leave me out of it,” said Freddy nervously, for John Quincy was beginning to tap nervously on the counter with his beak—a sure sign with woodpeckers that there is going to be a row.
“That is not the point,” said John Quincy, suddenly raising his voice. “As an officer of this bank, it is your plain duty to be here in banking hours. Suppose Mr. Bean comes in and wants to talk to the treasurer and I have to tell him the treasurer’s out chasing butterflies! What kind of a bank is that? We’ve had quite enough of this, Jinx. As president of this bank and your superior officer—”
“As president of this bank and my superior officer,” interrupted Jinx, “you go soak your head in a rain barrel. You’re right, we’ve had enough of it. I’m through. I started this bank to have some fun, not to be a woodpecker’s slave. I quit, do you hear? I resign.” And with a swipe of his paw he knocked John Quincy off the counter, and leaped out of the door.
“I’m sorry, J. Q.,” said Freddy as the woodpecker picked himself up and smoothed down his feathers, “but you asked for it. That’s no way to handle Jinx. He’s a good fellow, but—”
“There’s only one way to handle animals like him,” said John Quincy, “and that’s with a firm hand.”
“I should say that Jinx was the one that used the firm hand,” remarked the pig. “However, we’re out a treasurer. And we’ll have to have one. Who do you suggest?”
They talked for a time about possible candidates for the office of treasurer, but they might as well have saved their breath, for, as they soon found out, none of the animals on the farm wanted the job. Most of them, the dogs and the cows and Hank, the old white horse, had their regular jobs on the farm, so that they could not possibly work at banking from ten to three, and the others were hardly fitted for such a responsible position. And indeed the only one who really wanted to be treasurer was Charles, the rooster. Charles was rather pompous and was much esteemed as a public speaker—by everyone, that is, but his wife, Henrietta—and would in some ways have made a good bank treasurer. But his judgment wasn’t very good, and that is a grave fault in either a rooster or a treasurer. So Freddy and John Quincy both said no.
“We’ve got to do something, though,” said John Quincy. “We can’t do business without a treasurer. Now I’ve been thinking it over, and if it’s agreeable to you, I’ll fly down to Washington over the week-end and have a talk with Father. I think perhaps I could persuade him to come up and take charge. He likes good food, Father does, and I will say that the bugs in New York State are the finest I’ve ever tasted.”
“Well,” said Freddy. “I must say I don’t see why you and I can’t run the bank. After all, there are days and days when nobody comes in at all.”
“And there are days when somebody like Mr. Bean comes in,” said John Quincy, “and what’s he going to think if we say there isn’t any treasurer? Is he going to put his money in a bank that isn’t properly run?”
“I suppose not,” said Freddy. “And, my gracious, it would be awful if he decided that we couldn’t run a bank properly. He’d think we couldn’t run the farm, and then he wouldn’t take that trip abroad. And Mrs. Bean has been counting on it so.”
“Don’t you worry,” said John Quincy. “We can run the farm all right. We’ll get at this election pretty soon and fix the whole thing up.”
“We?” said Freddy to himself as he bent over his ledger. “Somehow I don’t like that ‘we’ so much.”
V
Early Monday morning Freddy was awakened by a noise. It was so loud and so startling that he leaped out of bed and was half-way to the window before he had opened his eyes. He pulled aside the curtain and stared out, gasping with fright. But there was nothing there. Nothing, that is, but the big red barns and the little white house and the empty barnyard with the long early morning shadows across it. “Oh, my goodness!” he groaned.
And a voice said: “Good morning.”
Freddy swung around. In the doorway stood Charles. “Do I wake ’em up or do I wake ’em up?” said the rooster, and began drawing in his breath for another crow.
“No, no,” said Freddy. “Stop it! I asked you to wake me up, not to blow me out of bed. And, my goodness, what time is it?”
“Just after five.”
“Just after five! I asked you to wake me up early so I could get to the bank on time. But, good gracious, I don’t want to get up in the middle of the night.”
“You asked me to wake you early and I did,” said Charles huffily. “Well, that’s the thanks I get—doing things for people.” He turned away grumbling, but Freddy said:
“Oh, forget it, Charles. We’ve got different ideas about what’s early, that’s all. Come in. Come in, and I’ll—I’ll show you my bicycle.”
“Your what?” said Charles, forgetting his anger.
“Bicycle,” said Freddy. “It
used to belong to Mr. Bean. My legs were too short to reach the pedals, but Uncle Ben fixed them for me.”
“How’d he do it? Stretch ’em?” asked Charles seriously.
“No, no,” said Freddy. “I mean he fixed the pedals.”
Uncle Ben was Mr. Bean’s uncle, who had lived for a time at the farm. He was a fine mechanic, and it was he who had made the clockwork boy as a playmate for Adoniram.
Freddy went into his study and came out wheeling the bicycle. It was a real bicycle, all right, though pretty rusty, and the pedals had been moved higher up so that Freddy could reach them.
“I’ve never practiced riding it much,” Freddy said. “Except that time I went into the pond. That’s when it got so rusty. And I don’t know when I’ll get a chance now, with the bank business and election coming on. But it’s a fine machine.”
“Beautiful,” said Charles, walking around and admiring it with his head on one side. “Look, Freddy, you’ve got five hours now you don’t know what to do with. I expect it’s too early in the morning for you to write any poetry. Why don’t you practice riding now?”
“That’s an idea,” said the pig. He wheeled the bicycle out of the door. “Come on, Charles. Get up on the handlebars and I’ll give you a ride.”
“No, thanks,” said the rooster. His judgment wasn’t awfully good, but it was good enough to keep him off any bicycle that Freddy was riding.
“Well,” said Freddy, “here goes.” But he didn’t seem very anxious to start. He stepped inside the frame and put one foot on the pedal and made a hop, but it was a very small hop, and the bicycle only moved forward about an inch. Then he stopped and looked up at the sky. “Wonder if it’s going to rain,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be caught miles from home in a rainstorm.”
“There isn’t a cloud in the sky,” said Charles. “Come on, Freddy, do your stuff. Vault into the saddle and away. Don’t get on like a girl.”
Freddy the Politician Page 3