Freddy the Pilot

by Walter R. Brooks

Everything but a square black box, which had knobs on one side and a sort of eyepiece on top, which he lifted out himself and set on the porch. Lettered on the side in white letters were the words, “The Benjamin Bean Bombsight. Pat. Applied For.”

  “So that’s what you’ve invented!” said Mrs. Bean. “And you want Freddy to experiment with it, I suppose? Well, you’re not going to drop any bombs on this farm, and you can make up your mind to that right now!”

  “Dummies,” said Uncle Ben. “Go ‘pop’ not ‘boom.’”

  “I don’t care if they go fizzle-wizzle-wizzle,” said Mrs. Bean firmly. “I won’t have them around.”

  “Now, Mrs. B.,” said Mr. Bean, “don’t fly off the handle. Uncle Ben’s never blown us up yet. Though I won’t say he ain’t tried. Remember that mouse trap that had the blank cartridge in it?—didn’t kill the mice but supposed to scare ’em so they’d run off and never come back. We set a dozen that night, I recollect. Then about midnight—cracky, it sounded like they’d opened fire on Fort Sumter!”

  Mrs. Bean laughed but she still looked dubious. “Those traps were ten times as noisy as they needed to be,” she said. “And I’ll wager these bombs will be, dummies or not. Never knew a Bean yet, man or boy, that didn’t want to make as much noise as possible.”

  Freddy didn’t know whether he was pleased or not that Uncle Ben had come. Experimenting with the bombsight might be fun, but it would take time, and he was going to be pretty busy trying to trace down that mystery plane. On the other hand, Uncle Ben was a fine mechanic, and now he wouldn’t have to go down to Centerboro every time he wanted anything on the plane checked.

  Freddy was never an early riser, and when he got up next morning and went up to the pasture to see if everything was all right, he found that Uncle Ben had been there working on the plane for several hours. The Benjamin Bean Bombsight was installed, and he was working on the release for the bombs. Freddy wasn’t very well pleased. It was his plane and he didn’t think anybody should start making changes in it without his permission. But he knew that Uncle Ben was too good a mechanic to do anything that would hurt the plane or slow it down in flight; and he thought that if the bombsight worked well, maybe he could use it. Anyway, it would be fun to try it out.

  When Uncle Ben had finished, he showed Freddy how to work the bombsight. As you flew along, you looked in the eyepiece, and saw the fields and houses you were flying over pass under you. There were two white lines in the glass, and when your target came opposite where these lines crossed, you pressed the release and dropped your bomb. According to Uncle Ben, you hit the target right on the nose every time. Indeed, he was so sure of this that he had already arranged for a delegation of army officers to fly up to the Bean farm that day and he was going to put on a test for them. He showed Freddy a telegram from a General Grimm, stating that he and various other members of the armed forces would arrive at two o’clock sharp.

  “Gracious!” said Freddy. “That isn’t much time to practise!”

  Uncle Ben smiled. “Foolproof,” he said.

  “Maybe it is,” said Freddy. “But maybe it isn’t pig-proof.”

  So they picked a big rock in the middle of the pasture as a target, and Freddy went up. He made two or three practise passes over the field. Looking in the bombsight he could see the rock plainly, and Uncle Ben standing way up by the stone wall that bounded the pasture on the north. It wasn’t easy to steer the plane so that the target appeared in the right place in the glass, but at last he got it and pressed the bomb release.

  Freddy didn’t see what happened for he was banking to swing around and drop another bomb. But some of the animals who had come up to find out what was going on, saw it. The bomb was a very small dummy one, and when it was released, it came whizzing down, but instead of whizzing towards the target, it whizzed straight at Uncle Ben. Uncle Ben jumped the wall and fell flat on his face behind it just as the bomb hit the wall and went pop! If it had been a real bomb, neither Uncle Ben nor that section of wall would ever have been seen again.

  Uncle Ben jumped the wall and fell flat on his face

  The animals all ran out and picked Uncle Ben up and dusted him off, and just then Freddy made another run and dropped a second bomb. And as that came whizzing down Uncle Ben and all the animals threw themselves flat behind the wall. And pop! went that bomb within a foot of where the other one had hit.

  Freddy saw then that something was wrong and he brought the plane down. Uncle Ben stood shaking his head sadly as the animals related what had happened. “Bad,” he said. “Bombsight useless.”

  “Why, no it isn’t,” Freddy said. “It just doesn’t hit where you aim it. Now if we put up a flag on the wall here and call that the target, and then I go up and aim at the big rock, I’ll hit the target every time.”

  Freddy would have liked to try once or twice more, but by this time it was nearly one, and Uncle Ben was already late for dinner, and of course after dinner would have to wash his hands and put a necktie on to welcome General Grimm. So Freddy fixed the target flag on the stone wall, and left two rabbits to guard the plane, and went to get his own dinner.

  Exactly at two o’clock two large planes landed in the pasture and out stepped two generals, five colonels, and twelve other officers of assorted ranks. General Grimm was short, stocky and red-faced and looked as if his uniform was top tight for him but nobody had better mention it. He led his companions over to where Uncle Ben was standing beside Freddy’s plane. “Benjamin Bean?” he shouted.

  “Me,” said Uncle Ben, holding out his hand.

  General Grimm shook it. “Pleased!” he roared.

  “Same,” said Uncle Ben.

  The general glared at him for a moment. He was famous throughout the whole army for saying as few words as possible in as loud a voice as possible, and he wasn’t very pleased to find someone who used even fewer words, even though in a quiet voice. He waved a hand at the other officers and named them. “Major General Grumby, Colonel Queeck, Colonel Tablet, Colonel Drosky,” and so on.

  Uncle Ben bowed to each, and then indicated Freddy, who was standing beside the plane. “Frederick,” he said. “Pilot.”

  Freddy bowed. In a crash helmet and goggles he didn’t look like a pig. He might have been just a short and rather too plump young man with a long nose. Then he climbed into the plane and Uncle Ben swung the propeller.

  The flag had been put on the wall where the two bombs had fallen, and Uncle Ben pointed to it. “Target,” he said, and General Grimm nodded, and his face relaxed, for he had gained a word on Uncle Ben. But Freddy was worried. As he taxied down to the end of the field for his take-off, he wondered if he hadn’t better just forget about the bombsight and use his own eyes to decide when to drop the bomb. For General Grimm was standing right on the rock now, to get a clear view of the flag, and grouped about the rock were Uncle Ben and the officers. “Suppose I aim at the rock this time,” Freddy thought, “and instead of hitting the flag, the old bombsight works right and the bomb hits the General. Golly, I suppose they’d just shoot me!”

  However the only thing to do was to aim at the rock. After all, he had done that both times before, and the bombs had hit right smack where the flag was. Indeed he needn’t have worried. He dropped his two bombs and one of them actually knocked the flag off the wall.

  General Grimm went up to shake hands with him as he climbed out of the plane. “Fine!” roared the general. “Excellent!” Then he turned to Uncle Ben. “Army needs your bombsight,” he shouted.

  “Thanks,” said Uncle Ben, and the general glowered at him again, for Uncle Ben had gained three words at one clip.

  Then as soon as the other officers saw that General Grimm liked the bombsight, they all began to praise it to the skies, and to say that Uncle Ben had better begin making more of them right away, because the Army and the Air Force would have to put one on every bomber. But the other general, Grumby, went and whispered to General Grimm, and after a minute he said to Uncle Ben: “The Benjami
n Bean Bombsight appears to be just what the army has been waiting for. But of course we will have to test it out more thoroughly. I would like to try it myself, and with your permission I will go up and drop a couple of bombs on the target myself.”

  “Delighted,” said Uncle Ben. He had evidently forgotten that the bombsight now hit about a hundred and fifty yards to one side of where it was aimed. He went and picked up the two dummy bombs that Freddy had dropped, and put in the things that went pop! when they hit the ground, and attached them under the wings. Freddy didn’t dare say anything. He watched as General Grumby climbed into the cockpit, and he groaned as General Grumby taxied off for the take-off.

  General Grumby was a little insignificant looking man, but he was a magnificent flier. When he had gained altitude he tried out the plane—did loops and side slips and rolls—and then he went on up until he was almost out of sight. They could see him going over the field, then banking to come around and pass over it again. But they didn’t know when he dropped the bombs. At least they didn’t know when he dropped one of them. But the other—well, the first Freddy knew about it was when there was a sort of rushing, whistling sound, and all the officers yelled and fell flat on their faces. And then there was a loud pop! and Uncle Ben said “Wow!” and Freddy said: “Oh my gracious, goodness me!” For the dummy had come down and hit within two inches of General Grimm’s left ear, where he was lying on the grass. And it had gone pop! right in his face, which was all black on one side.

  Of course all the officers jumped up and helped the general to his feet, and brushed him off, and asked if he was hurt. He didn’t know the side of his face was black, and I guess they knew better than to tell him, because he was mad enough anyway.

  “You’re witnesses!” he shouted. “I’ll have Grumby court-martialed for this! Deliberate attempt at murder!”

  “No harm done,” said Uncle Ben. “New man, Grumby. Not expert with Benjamin Bean Bombsight. Like to see another test?”

  It was clever of Uncle Ben, Freddy thought, to use more words than the General had. And indeed the realization that he was now ahead in the word-saving contest, seemed to calm General Grimm. But he shook his head. “Test next week,” he said. “Without Grumby.” He turned to his staff. “Prepare to take off,” he shouted.

  “I think,” said one of the colonels, “that the general feels that, in view of this unfortunate occurrence, it would be better to make another test at a later date. He will write you in a day or two. He is, I think, much pleased with your bombsight, and—” He broke off, for up the slope from the barnyard came Mr. Bean with a shotgun in the crook of his arm.

  “What in tarnation’s going on up here?” he demanded. “Uncle Ben, what you done—declared war on your family?”

  “War?” said Uncle Ben.

  Mr. Bean said: “That’s what it seemed like when that little pop-bomb of yours hit the corner of the porch. Scared Jinx into a fit. Scared me, too.”

  General Grumby had brought the plane down, and Mr. Bean watched him climb out. “What’s he doing in your plane, Freddy?” he asked.

  Freddy explained. “But,” he said, “I don’t know exactly why the bomb dropped down by the house.”

  “Exactly?” said Mr. Bean. “H’m, you don’t know exactly?”

  “No, sir,” said Freddy, “not exactly.”

  Mr. Bean looked at him sharply. Evidently he understood that the pig didn’t want to make any further explanation in front of the officers. He turned to General Grimm. “Well, sir,” he began, but the General was glaring and shaking his fist at General Grumby, who was walking towards him. “Murderer!” shouted General Grimm.

  “Oh, come, Grimm,” said General Grumby. “If I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t take a plane up and drop bombs on you. Too expensive.”

  “Scoundrel!” roared General Grimm and shook his fist.

  But General Grumby put his arm around General Grimm’s shoulders and shook him gently. “You’d better go wash your face,” he said, “and I give you my word, Grimm—you too, Mr. Bean—that I wasn’t playing any tricks. Frankly I don’t understand what happened. I aimed at the flag, both times—had it right under the crosslines. The bombsight must be defective.”

  “No!” said Uncle Ben.

  Freddy realized that the only thing to do was to gain time. If he told how he had had to aim way to one side of the target in order to hit it, the army wouldn’t have any further interest in such an unreliable weapon. “You saw me hit the target with both bombs,” he said. “I can do it fifty times more, if that will convince you. But I think as General Grimm has suggested, it will be better to set another day for another test.”

  General Grimm hadn’t suggested any such thing, but he wanted to get away from General Grumby, who was kidding him about having fallen on his face to escape from a bomb that just went pop. “Next week,” he said. “Same day, same hour.” Then he turned to Mr. Bean. “Regret damage,” he said. “Send bill to Washington—Department of the Army.”

  “Oh well, guess I won’t bother,” Mr. Bean said. “Busted a small hole in the porch floor, but that’ll be handy to knock my pipe ashes into. Scared the cat—lemme see; to shock and mental anguish caused in cat, resulting in loss of one or possibly two lives—oh, say, ten cents. No, guess I won’t bother. I’ll make it up to Jinx with cream tonight.”

  “Good afternoon, sir,” shouted General Grimm. “Let me alone, Grumby,” he said, shaking off his friend, and stalked over to his plane.

  CHAPTER

  6

  After General Grimm and his officers had gone, Uncle Ben took the bombsight down to the shop, and went to work to fix it so the bombs would hit what they were aimed at. And then Freddy got in the plane and flew down to Centerboro.

  First he went to see Mr. Boomschmidt. “Could you start giving shows again tomorrow?” he asked. “I think I can fly well enough now to do something about that plane if he tries to break up the show. At least, I can get an idea where he comes from.”

  “Comes from different directions,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, “but when he goes, he nearly always goes north.—Oh, my goodness, I almost forgot—Mr. Condiment is in town. Called on Rose last evening. He’s staying at the hotel.”

  “I must have a look at him,” Freddy said. “Maybe I can figure out a way to get rid of him.”

  “Oh please, no rough stuff!” said Mr. Boomschmidt anxiously. “He’d really have proof then that our animals were unmang—unmanj—oh, my gracious, you say it, Leo.”

  “Unmanageable animals, chief,” said the lion.

  “I don’t see how you do it, Leo,” said Mr. Boomschmidt admiringly. “Goodness, I can say ‘The black bug bled on the bare barn floor,’ and ‘She sells seashells,’ and all those tongue twisters, but this unmang—unmaggabubble … no, I can’t do it.”

  “Well, don’t cry about it, chief,” said Leo. “There’s a lot of things you can do that I can’t do.”

  “Dear me, such as what?” Mr. Boomschmidt asked.

  “Why, standing on your head, for one. Remember, last Tuesday at Mr. Beller’s party you did it, and after we got home I tried it, and I’ve been trying ever since, but I just can’t get my hind legs up.”

  “Really, Leo?” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “Now that’s very interesting. Now look.” He took off his plug hat and put it on the ground and then stood on his head. “See, Leo? Now if you just flip over quick …”

  Freddy went back to his plane. He owned a great many different costumes which he used as disguises in his detective work, and he had decided to keep a couple in the plane, just so that if an important case came up he could hop into a disguise and take the trail before it got cold. He had a new disguise which had been given him by an old and rather dressy friend, Mrs. Winfield Church, and he thought he’d try it. It was a thin dress with big flowers on it, and high-heeled shoes, and a very broad-brimmed picture hat, with a veil. It was a sort of garden party outfit.

  Freddy tapped along up Main Street in his high-heeled shoes, and a
number of people turned to look at him, for he made really a very fashionable figure. Mr. Watt, the optician, standing at the door of his shop, said: “Some class, hey?” to Miss Peebles (Harriet—Hats; Latest Paris Creations); and Miss Peebles said: “Yes, indeed, a very fashionable turnout. I wonder who she is?”

  Freddy went into the hotel, and the clerk bowed so low that he hit his nose on the counter. Then he sneezed and in answer to Freddy’s question said no, Mr. Condiment had gone out.

  So Freddy went to look for him. He stopped in front of the Busy Bee Department Store and asked a sparrow who was sitting on the awning if he’d seen a thin, sour-faced stranger anywhere in town. The sparrow, who like most sparrows was always trying to be tough without much to do it with, said out of the corner of his beak: “Yeh, I seen the guy you want. He went in old Tweedle’s bookstore.” Then he slouched along the awning until he could see under the picture hat. “Boy oh boy!” he said. “If it isn’t our Freddy! Well, ain’t you the sweetie pie!” And he began to yell to the other sparrows to come look.

  Freddy didn’t want to attract attention, so he hurried off to the bookstore. He had spent a great many hours in this store, and had bought a lot of books there. Mr. Tweedle was an old friend. He was rather a peculiar person. He never even looked up when a customer came into the store, and anybody that wanted to could stay there all day taking down books from the shelves and reading them. “I used to have a bell on the door,” he told Freddy, “but so many smart-alecky boys kept sticking their heads in and shouting: ‘Hey, Tweedledum, where’s Tweedledee!’ or some equally brilliant remark—well, I took it down.” The funny thing about him was that although everybody in town called him “old Mr. Tweedle,” he really wasn’t old at all, and didn’t look old. He explained that to Freddy. “Men that keep old bookstores are supposed to have long white beards and be covered with dust, just as college professors are supposed to be so absent-minded that they ought to be locked up, and army sergeants are supposed to be rough, tough men with jaws like flatirons. As a matter of fact most of these people aren’t like that at all. Why, if you’ll excuse me, Freddy—take pigs. They’re supposed to be stubborn, and dirty and lazy. But I don’t know any that are like that. Just the opposite, in fact.”