“To think,” began Uncle Wesley, “that my own flesh and blood—”
“And,” continued Alice, calmly interrupting him again, “we don’t intend to argue about it. As our friend Jinx says—somewhat vulgarly, I am afraid, but it expresses our meaning—you’ll take it and like it! Am I right, sister?”
“Oh, dear,” said Emma nervously, “it seems terrible, but …” She hesitated, then drew herself up. “You said it, sister!” she exclaimed.
For Uncle Wesley this was the last blow. His head drooped, and he walked to the doorway and stood sadly looking out. Then suddenly he gave a start. “Dear me!” he said. “Why, goodness gracious!” He turned and looked oddly at his nieces. “Why, this is—this is …”
“Good grief, Wesley, what is it?” demanded Mrs. Wiggins.
“The duck stared at her with a sort of wondering look on his face. “I—I don’t quite know how to tell you,” he said. “It just came over me—why, I’m not a hero at all! And I don’t care! Now that’s a strange thing. All these years—” He broke off. “I have always admired heroism very much,” he went on after a moment. “I didn’t know I wasn’t a hero myself. All those things I told you about my bravery—well, I thought they were true, or at least I thought they could be true. But now I see they couldn’t. Dear me, I must be a coward! And what does it matter? Why, it relieves me of a tremendous strain, the strain of always having to act up to something I wasn’t. I’m scared even of Alice and Emma—I’ve always been scared of them: that’s why I bossed them around—so they wouldn’t know it. But I’m getting too old for that. It’s too much work.” He turned to his nieces. “My dears,” he said, “I would like to come back and live with you, if you want me. And I’ll do as you say. Why, I think maybe I’ll have a pretty good time!”
“That’s the kind of talk I like to hear,” said Mrs. Wiggins heartily. “I’m proud of you, Wesley.” And the other animals crowded up and shook hands with him and patted him on the back.
“Why, you like me!” he exclaimed, and began to cry.
“Sure we like you,” said Jinx, “now you’re not a pompous old flutterbudget any more.”
Freddy had heard the Beans drive into the yard some time ago, and now he picked up the two hundred dollars and went out to find Mr. Bean. The farmer was sitting on the front porch while Mrs. Bean could be heard clattering the dishes in the kitchen as she got supper. Freddy went up on the porch and put the packet of bills on the farmer’s knee.
“Eh?” said Mr. Bean, looking at him sharply, and then he took up the bills and counted them. “By cracky!” he said. “By cracky!”
Mr. Bean never said “By cracky!” unless he was pretty deeply moved, and now he had said it twice. Freddy felt very happy, and he went up and rested his chin on Mr. Bean’s knee.
A little while later Mrs. Bean went to the front parlor window and started to rap on it to call Mr. Bean in to supper. But what she saw stopped her. Mr. Bean, with his unlit pipe in his mouth, was rocking peacefully to and fro in the old willow rocker, and Freddy was sitting in his lap.
“Land sakes!” exclaimed Mrs. Bean. And then she laughed a little to herself, and went out and put Mr. Bean’s supper on the back of the stove to keep it warm.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1942 by Walter R. Brooks
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9217-6
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Freddy and the Perilous Adventure Page 13