Freddy the Politician

by Walter R. Brooks

  “You wait!” was all Grover could say. “You wait!”

  “Not going to,” said the owl. “It’s war, Grover, and I’m going to start right in today. Duels are silly, but war—that’s something different. Besides, Freddy and Mrs. Wiggins are friends of mine. Look out for yourself, Grover. Especially at night.” And he and Vera both laughed their eerie, hooting laughter. Grover shivered and, turning Bertram, marched him out of the woods.

  In the meantime Freddy was not enjoying himself much. He had been untied and taken downstairs and shut in the box stall with three guards: Ezra, Simon’s eldest son, and two other rats. The box stall had once been used by the animals as a jail, and escape from it would have been pretty difficult, even if it were left unguarded. But with the rats there, escape was out of the question. They knew what was to be expected from Freddy’s friends, and not a mouse could get near the stall.

  But the rats had a good time at first. They made up ribald songs about Freddy and sang them. One or two of them were quite funny and even made Freddy laugh. And when they looked at him in surprise, he remembered his belief in the power of laughter and burst into a roar.

  “The song isn’t as funny as all that,” said Ezra doubtfully.

  “I’m not laughing at the song,” said Freddy. “Just something I thought of.”

  They pressed him to tell them what it was, but Freddy wouldn’t; he just kept on laughing, and by and by the rats got uneasy. They stopped singing and prowled around the stall, peering and listening.

  “Aw, it isn’t anything,” they said at last. “He’s just trying to get our goat.”

  “Sure, boys. That’s it,” said Freddy seriously. He was sober for a while, and then he began to chuckle as if he just couldn’t hold it in.

  Before he was through he had the rats so nervous and unstrung that they sent word out, and three other rats took their places. By that time it was six o’clock, and Freddy was hungry. But the rats said orders were that he couldn’t have any supper. “Your friend old Whibley has been misbehaving,” they said. “So of course you get punished for it.”

  After that, Freddy didn’t feel up to laughing any more, so he curled up and tried to go to sleep.

  For a time the tramp of Bertram’s heavy footsteps and the sounds of bird and animal voices upstairs, to say nothing of the hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach, kept him awake. By and by he fell into a doze, and watched a procession of dinners and lunches and breakfasts and bowls of soup and big platters piled high with food passing by, just out of reach. He moaned and tossed about in his sleep, and his guards woke up and grinned at each other.

  “Beefsteak, Freddy,” whispered one.

  “Apple pie,” whispered another.

  Freddy moaned louder.

  “Aw, let him alone,” said the third.

  It must have been about midnight when Freddy was awakened by a sharp little whisper in his ear. “It’s me, Freddy—Webb. Quiet, don’t move.”

  Freddy lay still.

  “Listen,” said the spider. “We’re going to try to rescue you tomorrow while Grover and his army are attacking the Witherspoon farm.”

  “But you can’t!” Freddy exclaimed. “It’s too dangerous.”

  He had forgotten the guards, and now they jumped up and came over to him.

  But Freddy remembered in time. He gave a sort of half snore that ended in a moan, and said, as if talking in his sleep: “Take it away, I tell you. Take it away!”

  “Hey, Freddy, what’s the matter?” said one of the rats, putting a paw on his shoulder.

  “Eh? Wh-what? What’s wrong?” exclaimed the pig, starting up and looking around wildly. Then he sank back. “What did you want to wake me for!” he said crossly. “I was just finishing a big plate of lobster salad and they were bringing me in a mince pie.”

  “Guess it’s just as well I did, then,” said the guard with a laugh. “All right, boys. He was just dreaming.”

  When everything had quieted down, Mr. Webb said: “I can’t tell you the whole plan now, for there’s lots to do and I must get back. But you be ready. When you’re out, we can decide what to do about Grover. And, by the way, don’t worry about the bank. Grover stopped there on his tour of inspection today and said that he supposed it was up to him to take charge of it, since the bank president was in jail. So he put X in charge of it. But John went down there just after they grabbed you this noon, and he dug another room and moved all the money and valuables into it, and then he closed it up so nobody would know where it was. Grover is planning to use that money, I think, but he’ll never find it now. Well, so long.” And Mr. Webb dropped down to the floor and tiptoed across it and up the wall and through a crack over the window to safety.

  Freddy felt a lot better in his mind, but a lot worse in his stomach, for he was getting hungrier and hungrier. He couldn’t sleep, and there was no use trying to figure out how his friends planned to rescue him, so he decided to annoy the rats. And he suddenly gave a loud laugh.

  The rats jumped up, squeaking excitedly, and rushed over to him. “What is it? What goes on? What’s the matter?”

  Freddy blinked at them. “Oh, sorry, boys. Guess I must have had a nightmare.”

  “A laughing nightmare!” said one incredulously.

  “Sure,” said Freddy. “I often have ’em. Specially when I have something on my mind. Something funny, I mean.”

  “Perhaps if you told us what it was, you wouldn’t have any more of them,” said the second guard.

  “Perhaps,” said Freddy. “Good night, boys.” And he turned over.

  Freddy had six more laughing nightmares during the night, each louder and more startling than the last. The three rats were wrecks by morning.

  XV

  Grover’s army marched at dawn. They filed out of the gate and up the road toward the Witherspoon farm, Bertram in the lead, with John Quincy and X on his shoulders and the two herons stalking beside him; then in a not very orderly column came a regiment of wood rats, weasels, and other small animals, with a mercenary dog or two. Overhead the sky was empty of birds. The three hawks were scouting ahead of the column, but the main body of birds was not to start until Bertram entered the Witherspoon farmyard. The rats had been left behind to garrison the Bean farm. Of course the Farmers’ Party could easily rise and overwhelm the rats, but Grover felt sure that they would not dare do anything for which they would be certain to be punished severely on his return.

  The army marched over the hill and poured into the Witherspoon farmyard, just as the birds, flying in four columns high in the air, came into sight. Mrs. Witherspoon was looking out the window, for although she never went anywhere, she seldom missed anything that was going on outside.

  But she had never seen anything like this before. She pushed her spectacles up on her forehead so she could see better, and then she threw up the window and called out: “Boy! You—boy! What do you want?”

  Bertram saluted her and said: “Madam, nobody is going to harm you. Just stay inside the house and everything will be all right.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not coming out for you,” said Mrs. Witherspoon. “If you want Mr. Witherspoon, I don’t know where he is.” And having given this useful piece of information, she slammed down the window and went back to her work. For she had a good deal to do. She was not a very fast worker, and she was still finishing putting up last season’s preserves.

  Two dogs ran out of the barn, barking.

  “Dogs,” said Bertram, “go call together all the animals and birds on this farm. We have come to annex it in the name of the president of the F.A.R.”

  “Yeah?” said the dogs, and they rushed at Bertram, and one of them bit him in the left leg, and the other bit him in the right. And then they both let go and yelped and retreated to a safe distance. For of course Bertram’s legs were wood.

  Mr. Zenas Witherspoon heard the racket and came out of the barn, where he had been playing solitaire. He had a passion for solitaire, and that was one reason why
he could not make his farm pay and why he hadn’t been able to buy shoes for his horse, Jerry. He spent a lot of the time when he should have been plowing or milking or pitching hay in trying to make solitaire games come out.

  “What’s all this?” asked Mr. Witherspoon.

  Bertram explained courteously. “We aren’t going to interfere with you,” he said. “You will run your farm just as before. We are organizing the animals into a republic, but they will continue to work for you. The only difference will be that in animal affairs they will owe allegiance to the F.A.R. They will be called upon occasionally for military duty, and will give part of their food to help feed the army. There will be a distinct advantage to you, for it is to the interest of the F.A.R. to see that the farms forming its subject states are well and properly run.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Witherspoon, who was anxious to get back to his solitaire game, “guess that’s for them to decide, then.” And he went back into the barn.

  By this time the Witherspoon animals had all gathered and were looking with amazement at Bertram and his army and the scores of birds that perched in rows on the roofs and branches.

  Then Bertram made a speech. He told of the founding of the F.A.R., and of his plan for a great empire of animals. He talked for an hour, and many of the Witherspoon animals became enthusiastic and were all for joining. But Jerry and a cow named Eunice and one or two others were not convinced.

  “I don’t know as we want to join,” said Jerry. “We’re satisfied here. We don’t want to be in any army. We don’t want glory and we aren’t heroes—we’re just plain animals. I guess you can just count us out.”

  “I shan’t argue with you,” said Bertram. “If at the end of two minutes you still refuse to join us, I shall tear down your cow-barn.”

  Some of the animals looked frightened, but Jerry only laughed. “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Look,” said Bertram. He walked over to a fencepost which was sunk deep in the ground, seized it with his left hand, gave a preliminary tug, and pulled it out. “Now do you think I can tear down your barn?” he said.

  The animals talked together for a moment. Then Jerry stepped forward. “I guess we’ll have to join,” he said sullenly. “We can’t have things pulled to pieces. All right; we agree.”

  “Good,” said Bertram. “In the name of the F.A.R. I take possession of this farm, which will be known hereafter as the sovereign State of Witherspoonia. And now I will give you my orders.”

  Back in his dungeon, Freddy was waiting impatiently for the expected rescue to take place. “I wish they’d hurry,” he kept saying to himself. “I hope they won’t forget to bring something to eat.” He had been quite faint from hunger when he woke that morning. Not that that was anything unusual. He often got faint from hunger when he missed one of his usual half-hourly snacks. The rats had brought him a cabbage and three raw turnips for breakfast—not exactly a banquet, as he pointed out. But they just laughed. And so he sat and longed for food and freedom.

  But at last something did happen. Through the crack by the window, which Mr. Webb had used the night before, a wasp came crawling. It was Jacob. Freddy saw him before the guards did, and Jacob waved a reassuring feeler at him and then motioned him to be quiet. In single file ten wasps with drawn stings crawled through after their leader and lined up on the ledge over the window. Then at a signal they dove upon the unsuspecting rats.

  There was a great squealing and scrabbling, but there was no cover in the box stall—none, that is, except Freddy. In five seconds the three terrified rats had crawled in under the prisoner, like chickens taking refuge beneath their mother’s wing.

  Out in the other part of the barn Freddy could hear scampering and squeaking, and he judged that another body of wasps was taking care of the rats left in charge of the farm by Grover.

  Jacob lit close to Freddy’s ear. “I guess the coast is clear,” he whispered. “I hear Hank coming to unbar the door. As soon as you’re out, run for the cow-barn. Mrs. Wiggins will tell you what to do next.”

  “I certainly appreciate this, Jacob,” said the grateful pig. “I won’t forget it.”

  “Pooh!” said the wasp. “Any of your friends could have driven the rats off. But it’s better for us to do it, for Grover’ll have a hard time arresting us. We tried to get Grover this morning; there’s a crack in Bertram’s neck where a wasp can just get through. But boy, have those herons got sharp eyes! And beaks! We didn’t have a chance. So we tried this way. Well, here’s Hank. We’ll take care of these three lads when you get up. Herd ’em down to the pond, I guess. A bath’ll do ’em good.”

  The box-stall door opened and Freddy ran out and found Hank waiting. The barn was empty except for a dozen cruising wasps. “Hurry,” said the horse, and they ran for the cow-barn. Outside, a shadow swept across the barnyard, and Freddy looked up. In broad daylight a great owl was floating noiselessly past. “It’s old Whibley,” said Hank. “He and Vera have cleared the air for us. They’ve driven down every bird left on the farm. There won’t be anybody to tell Grover where you went.”

  In the cow-barn no time was wasted. “Georgie went over to the pigpen and got that disguise you wore to the orphan asylum last year,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “Slip into it quick, Freddy, and get away before Grover gets back. There’s some money in the shopping bag. John got that from the bank. I guess the best plan would be to go to Centerboro for a while. We’ll keep in touch with you through Jacob.”

  The disguise was an old gingham dress of Mrs. Bean’s, a sunbonnet into which were pinned two long corkscrew curls, a pair of black lace mitts, and a shopping bag with a picture of the Bridge of Sighs on it. The dress, like all Freddy’s disguises, was too long, and he had torn off part of the front hem so that he could walk in it without falling on his nose. It didn’t improve its appearance any.

  Mrs. Wiggins shook her head doubtfully when he had at last struggled into it. “I don’t know, Freddy. Except for being about fifty years behind the times, it’s a good costume. And it hides everything but the end of your nose. And yet it doesn’t hide the most important fact about you.”

  “And what’s that?” said Freddy, tying his bonnet strings under his chin.

  “That you’re a pig, of course,” said Jinx. “Just take a word of advice, Freddy. Don’t go to the butcher’s house for tea while you’re leading the gay life in Centerboro.”

  “Instead of passing all these wisecracks,” said Freddy, “you might be getting me something to eat. I’m practically starving. Look at this dress. Last year I could hardly get into it, and now it hangs on me like a sack.”

  “Well, you wanted to reduce,” said Robert. “Maybe we ought to have left you in jail. Just think what a fine figure you’d have after a month of bread and water.”

  Freddy merely grunted and, drawing the lace mitts over his fore trotters, dropped a curtsy to his friends and walked out into the barnyard. A quick look around assured him that no one was in sight, and he walked quickly out of the gate and took the road for Centerboro.

  Mrs. Wiggins looked after him and shook her head again. “I don’t know,” she said. “There’s something about a pig … I wonder what it can be.”

  It wasn’t a very long walk to Centerboro; but for a pig in a gingham dress and a sunbonnet, on a hot spring day, it was quite a trip. Particularly for a hungry pig. Once beyond the Bean farm, Freddy began waving to every car that passed him in the hope of getting a ride. But the occupants merely waved back and went on, laughing heartily.

  “Something’s wrong,” said Freddy. “I wish Mrs. Wiggins cared a little more about her looks; she’d have had a mirror in the cow-barn. Of course I can’t get a disguise on properly if I can’t see myself in a mirror.”

  He walked on a half-mile or so and met a little girl.

  “Hello, pig,” said the little girl, whose name was Genevieve Stamp. I don’t know why I tell you her name, for she doesn’t come into the story again. But maybe you’d like to know it.

  “What!�
�� said Freddy severely, speaking in a high falsetto which he had put on with the disguise. “Little girl, that is no way to address your elders.”

  “But you are a pig,” said Genevieve.

  “When I was a little girl like you—” Freddy began.

  But Genevieve started to giggle. “You weren’t just like me,” she said.

  “Perhaps not just”, said Freddy. “But, at any rate, I was a little girl and now I am an old lady, and when you get to be my age—”

  “Tee-hee!” said the little girl, giggling worse than ever. “I never saw an old lady before with a little curly tail.”

  “What!” said Freddy, and he looked over his shoulder and saw that, sure enough, his tail was sticking out through the placket of the gingham dress. “Good grief! Now how did that get there?”

  Good grief! Now how did that get there?

  “I guess it grew there,” said the little girl, and she ran off, laughing merrily.

  So Freddy tucked the tail in, and the next car he waved to drew up beside him. Freddy could not see the driver, for he had to keep his head down so that the sunbonnet would hide his face, but there was something familiar about the voice that said: “Deary me, madam, this is a great pleasure to be sure. Get in, get in.”

  Freddy tripped on the skirt getting in and fell in a heap at the man’s feet, but he managed to scramble up and into the seat before his sunbonnet fell off.

  He settled himself with great dignity.

  “Now this is very good of you,” he said, “to give an old lady a lift. I take it very kindly of you.”

  “Old lady, did you say, madam?” inquired the man gallantly. “Why, you’re no older than my daughter, I’ll be bound.”

  “Oh, sir,” said Freddy with a giggle, “I fear you are a great flatterer. And a great ladies’ man, I can see with half an eye.” And as the car had started again, and the man was certainly watching the road, Freddy risked half an eye under his sunbonnet and saw, as he had expected, that his companion was the little man with a face like a pig’s, who had been wandering about the Bean farm.