Freddy and the Perilous Adventure

by Walter R. Brooks

  “‘He paid you what you thought you’d lost by not being able to make it,’ I said.

  “But he didn’t see it that way. The two hundred Mr. Bean paid him, he said, was for—how was it?—‘mental anguish and laceration of feelings,’—that was it. Meaning, I suppose, the worry he had over thinking the balloon was lost. Anyway, he’s going to keep both two hundreds.

  “Well I said to him—I said: ‘Some folks would call that dishonest, Mr. Golcher.’ He just laughed. ‘Golcher dishonest?’ he said. ‘Well, now, that’s a matter of opinion, and such opinions are usually settled in a court of law. If Mr. Bean, or that smart pig, thinks I’m dishonest, why all they got to do is argue it out before a judge and jury. ’Tain’t any good talking about dishonesty; you got to prove it, or it isn’t so.’”

  “We couldn’t go to law about it,” said Freddy. “It’s too complicated a case, and besides, I’d be in jail.”

  “You’ll be in jail anyway if you don’t get away from here,” said Leo. “Because after I’d argued with him for a while, he said: ‘Say, you seem to know a lot about this pig; where is he?’ and I said: ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ and he said: ‘I would, and I think I’ll have the police come search the circus and find out.’”

  “Pooh,” said Freddy, “they’d never recognize me in this disguise.”

  “Yeah? Well, listen to this. You remember Leslie?—he’s that young alligator that can turn cartwheels—well, he hangs out down at state police headquarters a lot, because he likes to play checkers. He’s good at it, too. Well, he just got back in time for his act, and he told me before he went on that the police got a complaint from a farmer that his scarecrow’s clothes had been stolen.”

  “Oh,” said Freddy. “So they’ll be looking for somebody in those clothes?”

  “Worse than that. Wes and Bill remembered that they’d seen clothes like that twice, and they put two and two together and decided that the scarecrow and the mouse trainer were the same person, and that they were probably a pig named Freddy who stole a balloon. Because, they said, why look for two thieves when one will do?”

  “Oh, golly,” said Freddy wearily. “I ought to beat it right now, but I can’t go with a disguise and I certainly can’t go without one. If I could get to that balloon, I guess I’d just like to sail off into the sky and never be heard of again.”

  “Well, dye my hair!” exclaimed Leo perplexedly. “I never thought to hear you give up as easy as that. Just because the cops are beginning to close in on you. A pig that’s done what you’ve done and seen what you’ve seen. Why, you haven’t even begun to fight, Freddy.”

  “Eh?” said Freddy. “Maybe you’re right.” He frowned. At first his frown was thoughtful, but gradually it grew fierce. “You are right!” he said, and began stripping off the scarecrow’s clothes. “I’m not licked yet—not by a long shot. I’m going out there, just like this, a pig and proud of it, and let ’em come take me if they can! Just let ’em try it! Just—”

  “Hey, hold on,” said the lion; “you can’t fight the whole police force. You certainly do change quick.”

  “I expect it’s my poetic temperament,” said Freddy, “always flying from one extreme to the other. But I suppose you’re right. Fighting’s no good; we’ve got to use guile.”

  “Is that some kind of disguise?” inquired the lion.

  Freddy was about to explain, when there was a tap at the door. Leo motioned him to stay out of sight, and opened the door a crack. “Oh, it’s only you, Abdullah,” and he opened the door wider. “Come in.”

  The man who came in was very dark, and he had a big turban on his head and wore a white robe. He was one of the elephant drivers, and his name was really Ed Peabody, but he was called Abdullah and dressed like an East Indian because he had to ride on the head of Hannibal, the biggest elephant, in the parade.

  “Why aren’t you with Hannibal?” asked Leo. “The elephant act will go on in a few minutes.”

  “I came over to tell the boss,” said Abdullah. “I can’t go on with ’em tonight. I feel all sort of sick and dizzy.”

  “You’ve been eating Hannibal’s peanuts again,” said Leo.

  “Well, I can’t help it,” said Abdullah. “The kids give ’em to him, and you know Mr. Boomschmidt says they aren’t good for him and I mustn’t let him eat them. And my old mother always said: Never throw away good food. So—”

  “All right, all right,” said Leo. “Tell that to the chief, not to me. But somebody’s got to ride Hannibal … Hey, wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “This will fix the whole thing. Give your turban and robe to Freddy, Abdullah. He’ll take your place. Look, Freddy: if there’s once place the cops won’t expect to find you, it’s on top of an elephant. Then when the show’s over, and it’s dark, you can go with Hannibal and Louise for the balloon.” He looked sharply at the pig. “Only we’ll have to put something on your face to darken it. Gracious, I never realized how blonde pigs were. I’ll touch you up with some of Bill Wonks’ hair dye, that he uses on his moustache.”

  “Well, dye my face!” murmured Freddy unhappily.

  And so when the animals marched into the big tent to go through their drill and do all their tricks, it was Freddy, in robe and turban, and with a complexion as swarthy as a Moor’s, who sat cross-legged on the back of Hannibal’s neck and bowed graciously right and left to the thunder of applause. And it was Freddy who giggled so that he nearly fell off when, as he marched by one of the front benches, he saw Jinx and the four mice clapping their paws enthusiastically. “Wait until they know who they’ve been applauding!” he said to himself.

  … it was Freddy, in robe and turban.

  But his thoughts took a more solemn turn when a few minutes later he saw four state troopers walking down past the benches in different parts of the tent, and looking closely at the audience. As the elephants went through their routine, he kept his eye on the troopers. Here and there one of them would tap a man on the shoulder, and he and the man would exchange a few words, and then the trooper would go on. Gradually the audience became aware of this activity, and some were annoyed by it, and some were scared, and pretty soon everybody was watching the troopers and nobody was watching the elephants, or even the clowns.

  So then Mr. Boomschmidt stepped out into the middle of the ring and held up his hands. “La-dees and gentlemen,” he shouted; “it has perhaps not escaped your attention that for the past fifteen minutes two shows have been going on under this tent. There is the show provided at great expense for your amusement by Boomschmidt’s Colossal and Unparalleled Circus, and there is the show provided, as far as I can see to no purpose and at no expense at all, by the gentlemen of the police. Since Boomschmidt’s Colossal and Unparalleled Circus does not believe in arguing with the police, the animals and clowns of Boomschmidt’s Colossal and Unparalleled Circus will now withdraw, and permit the police to continue with their own performance uninterrupted.”

  “No, no!” shouted the audience. “Goon with the show. Throw the police out.”

  “Perhaps, then,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, “the police will tell us what they are looking for, and we can help them find it, and go on with the show.”

  “We’re looking for a pig who stole a balloon,” called Bill from the top row of seats. “We have information that he is in this tent.”

  At this news that they were suspected of being a pig, some of the people who had been questioned by the police began to talk angrily to their neighbors, and others turned and looked suspiciously at people beside them or behind them, and the ones looked at got mad and several fights started. Down in the front row an old gentleman who had on the only silk hat in the audience turned on the trooper who had been questioning him. “Look like a pig, do I? I’ll have you know I’m Henry P. Utterly, senior partner in the law firm of Utterly, Utterly, Wimpole and Winker, and I shall start suit against you at once for defamation of character, malfeasance in office, and skulduggery in the first degree, and your case will be tried before Judge
Utterly, which is me, and how do you like that, young man?”

  “Oh, gosh!” said the trooper unhappily.

  “La-dees and gentlemen!” shouted Mr. Boomschmidt again. “The opinion expressed by the police that any one of this distinguished audience resembles a pig is one which you very naturally resent. Not that I have anything against pigs—my goodness, no. As a lifelong friend and companion of animals, I count among my most cherished friends members of the porcine race. And a pig—as pig—can be a very handsome animal. I should be the last to deny it.

  “On the other hand, a pig looks like a pig, and a man looks like a man. No pig wants to look like a man, and—per contra, conversely, and vice versa—no man wants to be told that he looks like a pig. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, I suggest to the respected gentlemen of the police that more harm will be done by a continuation of their search here than by the possible escape of this pig. Particularly since the pig is known to me personally as a thoroughly honest, reliable and talented animal, who I don’t for a moment believe ever stole so much as a pin from anybody.”

  There were loud cheers from the audience, and even from the elephants, for it was felt that Mr. Boomschmidt had dealt firmly and tactfully with a difficult situation. Freddy could hardly restrain himself from jumping down and going over to thank his friend, particularly when he knew that his appearance at that moment would be received with the most enthusi astic applause. But he held himself back. And the troopers withdrew and the show went on. And then, as soon as it was over, Freddy and Louise and Hannibal set out to find the balloon.

  Chapter 12

  After Freddy had left them, the two ducks tidied up the balloon basket. They folded the blankets and ponchos, and repacked the hamper and the box of canned goods, and dusted and picked up so that everything was as neat as a pin. And then they sat on the edge of the basket and rested, and if they had had rocking chairs, I guess they would have rocked.

  “Well, sister,” said Alice, “if anyone had ever told us that we would actually have enjoyed such a dangerous trip, we wouldn’t have believed them, would we?”

  “Dear me,” said Emma, “have we enjoyed it? Why, I suppose we have. My, my, how proud Uncle Wesley would have been of us!”

  “He would indeed. And how he would have enjoyed it here. Why, it’s as if we had our own front porch to sit on.” Then Alice frowned thoughtfully and looked at her sister. “Did it occur to you, Emma, that something that eagle said might have referred to Uncle Wesley?

  Maybe you have never seen a duck frown thoughtfully. To tell the truth, I never have. But I do not see why, with practice, a highly educated duck like Alice couldn’t do it; and anyway, I am reliably informed that she did.

  Emma gave her a startled look. “You mean—you mean what he said about the farm at South Pharisee?—when they thought we weren’t listening? It did indeed occur to me. But I didn’t say anything about it because neither Freddy nor Breckenridge seemed to want us to overhear it.”

  Alice nodded her head. “We were always taught,” she said, “that when you overhear a conversation that is not meant for your ears, you should try at once to forget it. But in this case I think perhaps we are carrying good manners too far. Let us now admit that we heard it.”

  “Well … I admit it,” said Emma.

  “So did I. And if it is true, as Breckenridge seemed to hint, that Uncle Wesley is living on such a farm, then I think we should do something about it.”

  “But what can we do?”

  “I don’t know,” said Alice. “Let me think.” And she closed her eyes as she had seen Freddy do when he was thinking. But in a minute she opened them again. “I must say,” she said, “I don’t see how Freddy manages it.”

  “Manages what?”

  “Thinking with his eyes shut. Goodness, I should go right to sleep.”

  “So does Freddy, I fancy,” said Emma. “Only he pretends he’s awake all the time.”

  “He does think of things, though.”

  “Perhaps they come to him in his sleep,” said Emma. “Why don’t you try it?”

  So Alice shut her eyes and put her head under her wing, and Emma watched her anxiously. Emma didn’t try it herself, because she never thought of anything anyway, whether she was awake or asleep. She always said that it was no use her trying to think—it just confused her.

  After quite a long time Alice took her head out from under her wing.

  “Did you think of anything?” Emma asked.

  “No,” said Alice disgustedly. “I just dreamt that we jumped out of the basket. We spread our wings and fluttered down. Why, dear me,” she said in a surprised voice, “I suppose I did think of something. We can jump down and go see if Uncle Wesley is on that farm. Only it does seem to me that I could have thought of that without going to sleep.”

  Emma said in a weak voice that perhaps if she went to sleep again she’d think of something better, but Alice retorted that whatever they decided to do, they’d have to get out of the balloon first, and jumping was the only way. “If you’re afraid,” she said, “I’ll go, and you can wait here.”

  Emma sidled to the edge and peered over, and she shuddered so hard that a feather flew out of her wing and went floating slowly earthward. And then suddenly her foot slipped, and with a loud quack of terror she fell.

  “Oh, preserve us all!” exclaimed Alice, and craned her neck out over the edge, half expecting to see fragments of Emma strewn over the ground below. What she did see was quite different. For Emma had spread her wings and was beating the air to keep from falling. Indeed she fluttered so frantically, that for a second or two she stayed motionless in the air. And her fear suddenly left her.

  “Look, sister, look!” she called, and began giggling delightedly. “I’m—tee, hee—I’m flying! I’m cutting regular—hee, hee, hee!—regular capers!” And indeed she did almost succeed in turning a back flip before her unaccustomed wings began to get tired, and she stopped fluttering, and with wings spread, glided down in a long slow curve to the ground.

  “Oh, try it, sister,” she called up. “It’s quite delightful. And so easy! Why, I had no idea!”

  “Well,” said Alice doubtfully, and then she clamped her bill tight shut and jumped.

  Down on the ground, both ducks were so pleased with their experience that they would have liked to do it over again. But there was no way of getting back into the basket.

  “We’ll have to go to South Pharisee now,” said Alice. “Oh, Mr. Webb!” she called, and when the spider came sliding down a long strand of cobweb below the basket, she told him where they were going. “We’ll try to get back before Freddy does,” she said, and Mr. Webb waved some of his legs to show that he understood.

  Ducks aren’t built for woods travel, and the sisters had a hard time of it until they came out on a road that they had seen earlier from the balloon. They waddled down this for half a mile or so, and then struck the main road, and there was a sign that said: South Pharisee, 6 Miles.

  Emma sighed. “I’ll never make it,” she said. “Never in the world.”

  “Perhaps we can thumb a ride,” said Alice.

  “We haven’t any thumbs.”

  “Well, we can only try,” said Alice, and as a car whirled by she waved one wing in the direction they were going, and quacked as loud as she could. But the man in the car glanced at them and said briefly: “Ducks,” and his wife said: “Uh-huh,” and they went right on.

  After several cars had done this, they decided it was no use and they’d better walk. So they started on. Pretty soon they met a squirrel. He was sitting on the stone wall beside the road examining a last year’s hickory nut.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Alice, “but can you tell us where the Pratt farm is?”

  “Which one?” said the squirrel. “There’s Adam Pratt up towards Newcome, and there’s Ezekiel Pratt up on Lost Creek, and there’s Hiram Pratt—”

  “We want the one that lives near South Pharisee,” interrupted Alice.

 
The squirrel gnawed at the nut a minute, and then he said: “They all live near South Pharisee. There’s Zebediah Pratt at Winkville, and there’s Zenas Pratt on the Corntassel Road, and—”

  “Oh, wait a minute, please,” said Alice. “We’re looking for my uncle, and—”

  “If your uncle’s one of the Pratts, you ought to know his first name,” said the squirrel.

  “He isn’t one of the Pratts,” replied Alice, “and if you’d listen a minute I could tell you. He’s a duck, and he lives on a farm owned by a Mr. Pratt.”

  “A duck,” said the squirrel. “I suppose I should have guessed it. You don’t favor the Pratts. All dark-complected folks, the Pratts are.” He went on gnawing for a minute, and then he said: “All the Pratts keep ducks.”

  “Oh, dear!” said Emma, and Alice started to ask the squirrel something, when all at once he began to jump up and down angrily. He had gnawed through the shell of the nut and tasted the kernel. “Just as I thought!” he chattered. “Another rotten one!” Then he looked down at them. “Ducks!” he exclaimed contemptuously. “Pah!” And he threw the nut at Alice.

  “Well, really!” said Emma, and Alice said: “There’s no excuse for bad manners, young man. If you can’t be civil—”

  “Well, I can’t,” said the squirrel. “Not with ducks. Not today, anyway. You wait till I get my paws on that Wesley! I’ll show him!”

  “Wesley!” exclaimed Emma. “Why, that’s our uncle’s name! Oh, where is he?”

  The squirrel scratched his head. “Your uncle? Why, he could be, at that. What does he look like—something like this?” And he stuck out his chest, pulled in his chin, and stared down his nose importantly at them.

  “Why, he—he does look a little … Only of course you’re making fun of him. He has a sort of bold, fearless look.”

  “You wait till I get hold of him and see what happens to his bold fearless look. That’s the sixth rotten nut he’s sold me this week.”

  “Sold you?” said Alice. “I don’t think I understand.”