“I have to make one or two calls before lunch,” said John Quincy. “Meet you at the oak in half an hour. So long, Freddy.”
“Just a minute,” said the pig. “I wanted to ask you when the next board meeting is to be held.”
“What difference does it make to you?” said Grover. “You can’t vote at it.”
“I do if the president isn’t there and I have to take his place.”
“The president will be there, don’t worry,” said John Quincy. “The meeting’s this afternoon at three, though, if you want to know.”
“Well, there’s another thing,” said Freddy. “I’ve decided I’d like to be president of the bank.”
“Have you indeed?” asked Grover sarcastically, and John Quincy said: “Freddy, are you crazy? We just voted you out—do you think we’d vote you in again?”
“Well,” said Freddy humbly, “I just thought maybe you were tired of the job. And I’d like it. And I do think the board should vote on it.”
The woodpeckers started to argue, but Freddy was determined, and he argued back at them, and finally Grover said impatiently: “Well, I’m in a hurry. I can’t stand here all day. All right, Freddy, all right. The meeting this afternoon will vote on whether or not you are to be president of the bank. And I hope you’ll like its decision,” he added dryly.
“I will abide by its decision,” said Freddy.
“Yes,” said Grover. “So will we, you may be sure.” And with a short laugh he flew away.
Freddy laughed too, after they had gone, and then he hurried back to the board room to wait for three o’clock. He slept awhile, and he spent an hour or so composing a national anthem for the F.A.R., and at last, at two minutes of three, he heard a faint scraping and rustling in the blocked-up passageway that led to the bank, and he knew that the woodpeckers were coming to the meeting. He waited until it was exactly three o’clock. On the other side of the stones and dirt with which he had blocked the tunnel he could hear Grover and John Quincy talking together in low, excited tones. And then he said in a loud voice:
“In the absence of the president of the First Animal Bank of Centerboro, I, Freddy, sixteenth vice-president, declare the board meeting open.”
“Hey, Freddy, what’s all this? How’d you get in there? Let us in!” shouted the woodpeckers, but Freddy paid no attention and went quickly on.
“The first business before the meeting is the election of Freddy as president. I move that Grover and John Quincy and X be fired from their positions in the bank, and that Freddy be appointed president. I second the motion. Motion made and seconded. All in favor say ‘aye.’ Aye. All opposed say ‘no.’ Motion carried.”
He had gabbled the words as fast as he could get them out, for he could hear the woodpeckers hammering and digging away with their strong beaks, and he was afraid they would get in before he had finished. But now he stopped and shouted: “What’s all that noise out there?”
The dirt in the passageway crumbled and a beak came through.
“Hey, Freddy!” it called. “Stop the meeting! We’re here.”
“Well, upon my soul!” said Freddy in a tone of great surprise, as John Quincy’s head came poking through the dirt. “Why, I thought you’d been detained somehow, and of course the meeting had to go on. Here, let me help you.” And he began digging at the stones.
“This is a very strange business,” said Grover, when the two woodpeckers, panting and covered with dirt, stood in the board room. “One of your tricks, eh, my friend? Well, now since we are here, the meeting can begin.”
“The meeting’s over,” said Freddy. “It was announced by you for three o’clock, and as you weren’t here at three, I acted as president. Those are the rules, and you can’t deny it. And as a matter of fact, since you are no longer officers of this bank, you have no business here, and I must ask you to leave.”
“What!” said John Quincy. “It’s a trick! It’s cheating, Freddy.”
“Sure it’s a trick,” said the pig. “Just as it was a trick by which you got me out of the bank. Now we’re even, and I’m president. And you aren’t even seventy-fifth vice-presidents, either. Listen, boys. Let me give you a word of advice. When you play a mean trick on anybody, you want to go the whole way. You want to be as mean as you can. You should have thrown me out of the bank entirely, not left me in. That was your mistake. And now I think you’d better go. People not connected with the bank are not allowed in the vaults.”
The woodpeckers looked at him. in silence. He thought for a minute that Grover was going to fly at him. But then they turned and went back into the tunnel. Just as he left the board room, Grover turned.
“You’ll hear more of this,” he said darkly.
“Ah,” said Freddy, “so will you. It’s too good a story to keep. I expect all our friends will have a good laugh over it.”
Grover gave the nearest thing to a growl that a woodpecker can give—it is really a rather faint squeak—and disappeared.
XI
The big Wiggins parade that night was one of the finest things of its kind ever seen in Centerboro—or anywhere else, for that matter. Promptly at seven o’clock it formed and marched out of the barnyard. First came Jinx, walking on his hind legs, with a red, white, and blue scarf over his shoulder, and carrying a drum major’s stick, which he twirled expertly, and sometimes even threw up in the air and caught as it came down. At least he tried to catch it, but he didn’t always succeed, so that after a while whenever he threw it up the whole parade would break and run for cover, and Mrs. Wiggins had to ask him to stop.
Behind Jinx came Freddy, carrying the red, white, and blue flag of the F.A.R. He had dressed up in one of the many costumes which he used as disguises in his detective work—the white robe of an Arab sheik, which like most of his disguises was much too long for him, so that he kept tripping over it. And once he walked right up inside the robe, and the parade had to be held up to get him untangled. But when he was not tripping, he looked very distinguished.
Behind Freddy came the band—a group of mixed animals who blew on grass stems and rattled tin cans and made other semi-musical noises. Of course, none of the animals could really play anything, but it made a good lot of noise and sounded quite martial. Sometimes they sang, and that was really quite nice. Freddy had written a campaign song, the chorus of which went:
Then vote for Wiggins, everyone,
Your friend both true and tried;
In peace and war, in storm and calm,
Let Wiggins be your guide.
The animals sang this, and they sang their marching song, which Freddy had written to the music of The Battle Hymn of the Republic:
There’s a muttering of marching feet upon the windless air;
Far across the peaceful hills of Bean the distant torches flare;
For the animals are coming, you can hear the trumpets blare
And the drums beat victory.
Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins;
Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins;
Hip, hurray for Mrs. Wiggins,
For our next Pres-i-dent!
In our hundreds and our thousands we are marching through the night
Underneath the tossing banners, in the torches’ smoky light,
We sing our song of triumph, and we shout with all our might
For Wiggins—and victory!
When the Farmers’ Party marches let all other parties cower;
We will shatter and defeat them with our overwhelming power;
We will scatter them like chickens in a sudden thundershower
As we march to victory!
Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins!
Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins!
Hip, hurray for Mrs. Wiggins,
For our next Pres-i-dent!
When they sang it all together, it was truly inspiring.
After the band came the carriage of state, which was the old phaeton that the animals had brought back from Florida, drawn by Mrs. Wiggins�
�s sisters, Mrs. Wurzburger and Mrs. Wogus. And in it was Mrs. Wiggins. Freddy had insisted that there must be a carriage of state, and that she must ride in it. The cow had protested that she’d never be able to get into the thing, but Freddy was firm. “We’ll get you into that back seat,” he said, “if every animal on the farm has to help push you in.” And it did take a good deal of pushing. But I must say she looked very impressive sitting there among the banners and the crepe-paper decorations, bowing graciously to the cheering crowds along the line of march.
Bertram added a good deal to the impressiveness of the carriage. He sat on the front seat, and every few seconds he would shout: “Vote for Wiggins and Prosperity!” at the top of his lungs. Or, rather, at the top of Ronald’s lungs, for the rooster was sitting in the little control room inside Bertram. The animals had wanted to have Bertram march in the parade, but Ronald had tried him out, and he said it wouldn’t be safe. “Ever since his fall,” Ronald said, “Bertram has acted queer. His machinery doesn’t work properly. I know what it is, all right. It’s when you start to have him do something with his right arm. I could march him, I guess, without any trouble, but I might forget and do something with that right arm, and goodness knows what he might do.”
The carriage of state was followed by a detachment of rabbits in paper hats, led by Georgie, and then Hank, all trimmed up with crepe paper and Mrs. Bean’s feather duster on his head for a plume. The mice rode on his back. Then came the skunks and the squirrels and some of the other smaller animals, doing fancy marching. They had been drilling hard for a couple of weeks, and their evolutions were received with hearty applause, even from their political opponents. And last came Peter, the bear, at the head of a contingent of woods animals—foxes and raccoons and a porcupine or two.
Many of the animals carried signs, on which were printed such slogans as: “Vote for Wiggins, the People’s Friend” or “Win with Wiggins” or “Every Vote for Wiggins is a Vote for Prosperity and Mr. Bean.” Alice and Emma had wanted to carry a sign reading: “Hail to Wiggins, Centerboro’s Fairest Daughter!” but Freddy had pointed out that that sounded more like a beauty contest than an election, and so they had left the last part off. They probably wouldn’t have, for, shy and retiring as they were, they were pretty stubborn, but neither of them could spell “daughter,” so they abandoned the idea.
Now, of course it was night when the parade started, and the thing that made it the success that it unquestionably was, was the illumination. With the help of Jacob, Freddy had got together nearly a thousand fireflies, and they kept swooping and flitting over the heads and through the ranks of the marchers and lighting in rows on the phaeton. The head firefly had rather a genius for organization, and he had arranged it so that different parts of the parade were lit up at different times. And sometimes two or three hundred fireflies would light on Jinx or Freddy or on one of the signs, and then twinkle their lights rapidly, which gave a very striking and pleasing effect.
The parade went three times round the barnyard, then up the road, along the rail fence to the woods, down the creek, and back by the upper pasture and the chicken-house, coming out into the road below the First Animal Bank. Mrs. Wiggins made a short speech every time the parade stopped at one of the important points en route. She was not a very eloquent speech-maker, like Charles, or a very political one, like the woodpeckers, but she was earnest, and what she said always meant something, even if it didn’t sound beautiful. When the parade stopped at the henhouse, Henrietta and all her family came out to listen—more out of politeness than anything else, for they didn’t intend to vote for her. Charles was there, too, but he kept in the background, for he had had a fight with Henrietta about the parade. He had wanted very much to march in it, but Henrietta had said no, if he wasn’t going to vote for Mrs. Wiggins he ought not to parade for her.
“But we’re old friends and traveling companions, Mrs. Wiggins and I,” Charles protested. “I’m afraid she’ll feel hurt.”
“That’s as may be,” said Henrietta. “Anyway, you’re not going. And I guess nobody’ll notice you aren’t there.”
So Charles complained a little, and then stayed home.
“Friends and chickens,” said Mrs. Wiggins, “for I know you’re my friends, whether you vote for me or not—you have been promised by Grover, my worthy opponent, that if he is elected he will get you a revolving door for the chicken-house.”
“Hurrah for Grover!” shouted someone in the crowd.
“Quite right,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “Hurrah for Grover as much as you want to. But he’s made you a promise he can’t keep.”
“He can too,” shouted Henrietta. “He’s president of the bank, and he makes lots of money.”
“I guess, Henrietta,” said Mrs. Wiggins with her broad smile, “you’re a little behind the times. Freddy is president of the bank now. Grover has nothing more to do with it.”
“Well, if that’s true—” Henrietta began, but a loud voice from the roof of the henhouse interrupted her.
“Ladies and gentlemen—”
Everybody looked up, and there was Grover. He had been quietly following the parade in the darkness, waiting for a chance to break in on the speechmaking.
“It is true, ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted. “I am no longer president of your bank. But why? Ah, let me tell you why. That pig there”—he pointed a claw at Freddy—“has voted me out. By a mean, cowardly, and dishonest trick he has—”
“Here, here,” said Henrietta severely. “No calling names, woodpecker. Freddy is a friend of mine, even if we are on opposite sides in this election. And I have never known him to do anything either mean or dishonest or cowardly, to say nothing of doing them all together. Freddy, take off that nightgown and come up here and tell us the truth about this business.”
So Freddy came forward and told the whole story—how by calling meetings in a board room that he couldn’t get into, the woodpeckers had voted him out of his office in the bank, and then how by using the same trick, and with the help of Peter, he had voted them out and himself in.
The chickens burst into shrieks of cackling laughter when he had finished, and Henrietta said: “Well, this alters matters. I did want that revolving door, but I haven’t been satisfied any of the time that we were doing the right thing in voting for a stranger. Mrs. Wiggins, I’m happy to tell you that you will get all our votes.”
“Then I can join the parade?” said Charles eagerly.
“We’ll all join the parade,” said Henrietta. “Lead on, Jinx. Fall in, girls.” And two by two the chickens, giggling and nudging one another, fell into line behind the carriage of state.
All this time Grover had been trying to break in and say something, but each time he had been shushed and shouted down. Now as the parade started on he gave three loud squawks, and at the signal dozens of birds came swirling and swooping above the procession and began gobbling up the fireflies. In two minutes the only fireflies left who had not ducked for cover or been eaten were half a dozen that had taken refuge on Mrs. Wiggins’s broad nose, where none of the birds dared to peck at them.
“Well,” said Mrs. Wiggins, looking around, “I guess that ends this procession. Rather smart of Grover, I must say.”
“It was a good procession while it lasted,” said Jinx. “And we’ve got the chicken vote back. Come on, animals. Dismissed. Home to bed, everybody.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “You can’t leave me here in this thing.”
Now, it is hard enough to get a cow into a carriage, but it is three times as hard to get her out of one. Mrs. Wurzburger and Mrs. Wogus pulled the phaeton down past the bank and into the road where it was level and Mrs. Wiggins tried to get out. First she got her horns tangled in the canopy of the phaeton, and then in trying to get loose she got wedged tightly into the space between the back seat and the back of the front seat.
“Now I am stuck,” she said hopelessly. “No use pushing, Freddy. I just get stuck tighter.”
> Now I am stuck
“If we push hard enough, something’s got to give,” said Freddy. “Come on, now, Hank, Peter—one, two, three.”
The animals gave a shove, the phaeton gave a creak and a rattle, Mrs. Wiggins gave a groan, and then the onlookers gave a cheer. For Mrs. Wiggins shot out of the phaeton onto the road, and the animals who had been shoving shot out on top of her. And for a minute they all lay there in a heap, which shook and trembled oddly. But that was Mrs. Wiggins laughing underneath.
“More like a football game than a presidential election,” she said, when they had all got up and were brushing themselves off. “Well, well—no bones broken. But after this I do my electioneering on the hoof. No more state carriages for me. I’m not built for them, and that’s a fact.”
On the way home Henrietta drew Freddy aside.
“If you want Mrs. Wiggins to win this election, you’ve got to get busy, my friend,” she said.
“Pooh,” said the pig. “With the chickens on our side, we’ll win in a walk.”
“Oh, yes?” said Henrietta. “How about all these birds that have been coming and building nests in Mr. Bean’s trees? There’s hundreds of new ones. And they live here; they can all vote.”
“What?” said Freddy. “You mean that Grover—?”
“I mean that Grover and John Quincy and X have been showing some sense,” said the hen sharply. “While you’ve been going around and making speeches to get votes that you’re going to get anyway, the woodpeckers have been getting birds in here from all over the country. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they had got enough already to swing the election. They live here, don’t they? How can you prevent them voting? No more than you can prevent them from going back, after election, to where they came from. You’d better get busy, Freddy.”
XII
A meeting of the leaders of the Farmers’ Party was held in the cow-barn next morning to talk over what could be done to combat this new danger. Ferdinand, the crow, who, although a bird, was still faithful to Mrs. Wiggins, reported that on a scouting trip through the woods and the upper part of the farm he had seen more than fifty new nests. “And with each nest containing at least two voters,” he said, “you can see where that leaves us.”
Freddy the Politician Page 9