Freddy and the Popinjay

by Walter R. Brooks

  Of course Joseph could have gone on teaching his own cubs, but he liked having a school, and he was pretty unhappy. And so at last he decided to move away from Herkimer County and start a school somewhere else. Things were in this state when Peter arrived for his visit. As soon as Joseph heard what a nice place the Bean farm was, with lots of animals just aching to be taught things, and no prospect of wildcat trouble, he decided to move down there and start again. Peter was delighted. There was a place he knew just above his own home which, with a little digging and rearrangement, would make a fine combination den and schoolroom. The swallow told Freddy all this, and added that Peter and Joseph planned to come down in a day or two and get things ready.

  “But what do they think of the wildcat showing up down here?” Freddy asked.

  “They know who it is. It’s the father wildcat. They think he must have heard of the new scheme—after all, it’s no secret—and must have come down here to cause some trouble—try to break up the school, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “But he can’t break it up before it’s started.”

  “No,” said the swallow. “But the bears are pretty worried about it all the same. They think maybe the wildcat is going to move his family down here and start that same business all over again as soon as school opens. Peter wants you to try to find out what he’s up to.”

  “I’ll get my spies to work,” said Freddy. “But I don’t think we’ll find out much. And there isn’t anything we can do as long as he behaves himself, and he seems to be trying to be nice.” He thanked the swallow and dismissed him, and then went on with his writing.

  When he had finished he went out into the street, where Hank was waiting with the phaeton. The horse nodded towards a knot of people who seemed to be surrounding something that was going on on the opposite sidewalk. “Better go over and see what’s wrong with your friend, Mrs. Church,” he said. “She’s having an argument with somebody.”

  Freddy dashed across the street. He pushed through the crowd and saw Mrs. Church facing a lanky man with a long moustache and a silver star pinned on his vest. It was another friend of Freddy’s, the sheriff. “Well, ma’am,” he was saying, “the law’s the law, and it says that birds as hat trimmin’ is out. And it also says there’s a fine for wearin’ such. And it further says, ma’am, that it is my duty to seize and confiscate the same. We bein’ good friends, I ain’t going to arrest you, as is within my power, but I’ll have to ask you for that hat.”

  “Oh, look here, sheriff,” Freddy began. But Mrs. Church shook her head at him with a smile. She put her hands up and lifted J. J. Popinjay carefully off her head and handed him over. “I will never stand in the way of your duty, sheriff,” she said.

  J. J. never moved a feather as the sheriff carried him across and put him carefully in the back seat of his ramshackle car. But the minute the sheriff turned to get in behind the wheel, he flew back and perched again on Mrs. Church’s head.

  The sheriff started his engine, then looked around and was about to say something further to Mrs. Church, when he saw J. J. back again on her head. His jaw dropped. “You got two of ’em?” he demanded. He looked over his shoulder into the back seat, saw that the hat was not there, then got out again and went up to Mrs. Church, holding out his hand. “You hadn’t ought to have done that, ma’am,” he said reproachfully. “You hadn’t ought to snatched it back the minute my back was turned. I don’t know how you did it so quick, though, unless you had a string tied onto it.” And again Mrs. Church handed him the bird.

  This time the sheriff put J. J. on the seat beside him, and kept one hand on him as he drove away. But halfway down the block he raised his hand to salute a friend, and J. J. slipped out without being noticed and flew back and perched on Mrs. Church’s head again. And when the sheriff noticed he was gone and glanced back, there was Mrs. Church with the hat on her head.

  This time the sheriff didn’t come back. He didn’t even look around again. He steered into the curb and shut off his engine, and then he just sat there with his eyes shut and his hands clasped tight together as if he was trying to keep from flying to pieces. He didn’t move for quite a long time.

  Mrs. Church, and the little crowd around her who had seen what had happened, laughed and laughed, but at last, as the sheriff didn’t move, she and Freddy walked down the street and stopped opposite him. And Mrs. Church said: “Well, sheriff, I thought you wanted my hat?”

  The sheriff didn’t even open his eyes. “Kindly go away, ma’am,” he said between his teeth.

  “But I want to show you my hat,” Mrs. Church insisted. “You see, it’s not what you think it is.”

  “I know that, ma’am. I know that.”

  “But look at it, sheriff,” said Freddy. “It was all just a joke.”

  They had a hard time persuading the sheriff to open his eyes, but at last he did, and Mrs. Church showed him what the hat really was, and J. J. stood up and flapped his wings and sang for him. And at last, after a long time, the sheriff smiled weakly and said: “Well, ma’am and Freddy, the joke’s on me, I guess. But you like to scare the daylights out of me, just the same. And don’t get the idea, young pig,” he said, glaring at Freddy, “that you can start playing jokes on the law. A joke’s a joke, but two jokes is something else again. These here comic characters who go round pulling chairs out from under folks—they end up in my jail.”

  “And a very nice place to be, too,” Freddy said. “Remember, I’ve been to a lot of parties there.” He was not at all afraid of the sheriff, who was an old friend. He grinned at him, and the sheriff grinned back and said: “Well, you’d better come down there now, then, and have some ice cream. I told the prisoners to make a freezer full for supper.” And turning to Mrs. Church, he said: “They’d be proud and happy to have you join us, too, ma’am. Show ’em your hat and have him sing for them. Kind of brightens up the day for them. It’s little entertainments like that that make my jail one of the most popular in the state.”

  Mrs. Church said she’d be glad to come. Now that the wedding was over there was nothing to do but wash the dishes, and dishes could always wait. So they got into the sheriff’s car and drove off.

  Chapter 14

  Freddy woke up three times the next morning. The first time was when he dreamed that a pack of wildcats with red eyes was chasing him through an empty house. He hid in a closet to get away from them, but there was one in the closet too. He woke up with a yell. Then he sat up in bed for a while, thinking. At last he decided that it was the ice cream. He had eaten seven helpings at the jail. Or was it eight? He got up and took a little bicarbonate and went back to bed.

  The second time was when Charles crowed, and Freddy merely turned over and went to sleep again. But the third time it was because of the sound of angry voices—Mr. Bean’s and somebody else’s. At first he thought it was the ice cream again, but after a minute he noticed that he was listening with his eyes open, so that it couldn’t be a dream. He jumped up and ran outdoors.

  In the barnyard was a dilapidated old buggy, and between the thills stood Zenas Witherspoon’s horse, Jerry, wearing an old straw hat of Mrs. Witherspoon’s. And in the buggy were Mr. Witherspoon and Jimmy.

  “Well, I ain’t going to have you giving my boy any of your old castoff clothes, William Bean, and I tell you that straight,” Mr. Witherspoon was saying, and he tossed a bundle at Mr. Bean’s feet. It fell apart as it struck the ground, and Freddy saw that it was the suit and the shoes that Jimmy had won at the tournament.

  “I keep tellin’ you, Zenas, you old numbskull, that I didn’t give those duds to your boy,” said Mr. Bean.

  “I suppose you won’t deny that they came from your house?” said Mr. Witherspoon.

  “Certainly I won’t. Mrs. B., she gave ’em to the animals, to have as prizes in some contest or other. And accordin’ to your boy’s say-so, he won ’em.”

  “I did; I won ’em all fair and square,” put in Jimmy sullenly.

  “Well, won ’em or not,
he ain’t going to wear anybody’s hand-me-downs, not my boy,” shouted Mr. Witherspoon angrily.

  “Then I guess he’ll go naked,” drawled Mr. Bean, “for you ain’t ever bought him as much as a toothpick.”

  “He don’t wear toothpicks!”

  “Well, if he did, you wouldn’t buy him one. You’d make him go out and whittle him one off the fence. My side of the fence, too, I wager. And as for hand-me-downs—what’s he wearing now but some of your old overalls you bought back in nineteen-four? Sure, I can recognize ’em—I bought me some just like that the same year.”

  “Well, what of it?” demanded Mr. Witherspoon. “They’re mine, ain’t they? They ain’t charity. I can afford to buy him what he needs.”

  “You can,” Mr. Bean retorted, “but you don’t. You’ve got enough money to buy him fifty suits of gold plush, with socks and neckties to match. But you won’t even buy him enough to dress like a human being. You know what the other boys in school call him? The scarecrow. Old Zenas’s scarecrow.”

  “Bah!” Mr. Witherspoon sneered. “You’re gettin’ awful enthusiastic about spendin’ somebody else’s money, William. What’s it to you, anyway? He ain’t your boy.”

  “It’s nothing to me if you want to starve yourself and go round looking like something that’s been stomped on by elephants,” said Mr. Bean. “It’s nothing to me if, like folks say, you won’t ever stir your coffee with a spoon because you’re afraid of wearing out the cup. But by gravy, when it comes to makin’ a monkey and a hoot-nanny out of your own son, I’m going to tell you what I think of you!”

  “And I’ll thank you to tend to your own affairs!” Mr. Witherspoon shouted. “Giddap, Jerry.” And as the old horse started to clump towards the gate: “Fancy suits and shiny shoes!” he sneered. “You put ’em back where they came from. My boy don’t need fallals and fripperies.”

  “And you don’t need to holler,” said Mr. Bean. “I ain’t deaf.” He shook his head hopelessly and stooped to pick up the clothes.

  But just then Mrs. Bean came out of the door. She was a small round comfortable woman with snapping black eyes, and she walked quickly over to the buggy and said pleasantly: “Good morning, Zenas.”

  Mr. Witherspoon had either to stop or run over her, so he pulled up. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said.

  She came up to the side of the buggy and said quietly: “Zenas, what are you going to do with all your money?”

  Mr. Witherspoon stared at her. “Eh?” he said. “What?”

  “You’re a rich man, aren’t you, Zenas?”

  “Why …” He paused, then said defiantly: “Yes, ma’am, I am. Is there anything wrong about that?”

  “No. Nothing at all. It’s nice to be rich. It’s nice to have people look at you and say: ‘There goes the rich Mr. Witherspoon.’ But there’s one thing you’ve forgotten. You don’t look like a rich man, Zenas. You look like a tramp. And so when people see you, they don’t say: ‘There goes the rich Mr. Witherspoon.’ They say: ‘There goes old Witherspoon. Look at him! I guess he hasn’t got as much money as he makes out.’”

  Mr. Witherspoon’s mouth squeezed out a tight smile. “I guess the folks in this part of the country know whether I’m rich or not.”

  “Some of them do,” Mrs. Bean said. “Mr. Weezer, at the bank, probably does. But even if Mr. Weezer tells everybody around here that you’re rich, how many of them believe it? ‘Rich!’ they say. ‘Don’t make me laugh! A man that can’t afford even shoes for his family!’”

  Mr. Witherspoon flew into a rage. “Can’t afford—can’t afford! Just because I’m smart enough to save my money and not go throwing it around like a lunatic, you think … Why, how do you suppose I made my money? ’Twasn’t by runnin’ out and buyin’ gewgaws with every penny I made.”

  “Yes, but it’s made now, Zenas,” Mrs. Bean said. “You’re like a man who starts out to build a house. He lays the foundation and runs up the frame, and he puts in the windows and doors, and he shingles the roof. But when he’s finished, he goes right on. He builds it higher and wider, he adds more rooms and more doors and windows than he could use in a hundred years, and yet he goes right on building. He forgets what he started out to do. A house is a place to live in and enjoy. Well, that’s what money is, too. You don’t just go on making it.”

  “Oh, I suppose you’d have me stop, then?” Mr. Witherspoon enquired.

  Mr. Bean turned his back on him and walked away. But Mrs. Bean stayed. “Well, Zenas,” she said, “you haven’t answered my question. What are you going to do with all your money?”

  Mr. Witherspoon began to look rather upset. “Buildin’ houses, and putting in doors and windows,” he grumbled. “I don’t know what you’re all talking about.”

  “You won’t answer,” Mrs. Bean said, “because you aren’t going to do anything with it. Sacks and sacks of it you’ve put away in the bank, and it’s no more use to you than so many sacks of last year’s maple leaves.” She bent down and picked up Adoniram’s suit, which Mr. Bean had left lying there. “I went to school with your wife, Zenas,” she said, shaking the dust off the suit. “Netty Trimble she was then, always gay and full of spirits. I haven’t seen her in ten years. Even after she stopped coming over here, because she didn’t have decent clothes to wear, I used to go over to see her. But I stopped that. She was too ashamed to have me come, ashamed of how poor she had to live. But it wasn’t for herself that she was ashamed, Zenas; it was you she was ashamed of. Had you ever thought of that?”

  Mr. Witherspoon shook his head angrily. “I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t know why you and William act so mad at me. I’ve always lived on good terms with you as neighbors, haven’t I?”

  “You haven’t lived on any terms with us. You’ve been so busy piling up the pennies that you haven’t even known you had neighbors. Well, well; there’s no sense arguing. I don’t expect to change you. I was only hoping you’d let your boy have these clothes. It’s fun for boys to win things. And even though you keep him from having most of the things other boys have, I didn’t suppose you’d be mean enough to keep him from having as cheap a thing as fun.”

  Mr. Witherspoon looked glum. “Good land,” he said, “if you make such a point of it as that!… Well, I don’t hold with it, I don’t hold with it at all, but … take those things, boy, if you want ’em,” he growled.

  Jimmy jumped out of the buggy. He took the suit from Mrs. Bean, wrapped the shoes in it, and climbed back in.

  “Thank you, Zenas.” Mrs. Bean smiled cordially and held out her hand and Mr. Witherspoon took it gingerly. Then she waved to them as they drove off.

  “That Zenas!” said Mr. Bean, coming back from the corner of the porch where he had been puffing angrily on his pipe. “If he ever comes into this yard again—!”

  “It’s not Zenas I’m worried about,” Mrs. Bean said. “It’s Netty, and that boy. Did you see the boy’s face when he took the things? Trying to hide his happiness from his father. Zenas is always suspicious when any of his folks look happy: he thinks maybe it’s costing him money.”

  “Pity about the boy,” Mr. Bean said. “But I don’t know what we can do. I guess I’ll go think it over for a while. Maybe something’ll come to me.” And he started off towards the thinking hole, which he now used quite often.

  Freddy, who had listened to the conversation from the corner of the fence, went on into the cow barn, to tell the cows the news the swallow had brought him. They listened to him in silence, and then Mrs. Wiggins said: “Yes, I expect Peter’s right about that wildcat. We’ll have to drive him off. And yet—I’m sorry, in a way. I’d taken rather a fancy to him. You see, Freddy, he dropped in to call yesterday. While you were knocking them flat with your fine clothes at that high society wedding.”

  “He called here?” Freddy exclaimed.

  “He waited until Mr. Bean was out of the way,” Mrs. Wogus said. “Of course that was only common sense; no farmer wants wildcats around his barns. But as Mac said to us�
�there are wildcats and wildcats, and he was sure that in time he could break down any foolish prejudice Mr. Bean might have against him. He was really very nice, Freddy. He told us all about his children—he said he was sorry he didn’t have any photographs of them to show us—and really he seems quite a home-loving person—a real family wildcat, if I may use the expression.”

  “I guess you may,” said Freddy, “if you don’t ask me to believe it.”

  “He likes our neighborhood, too,” said Mrs. Wurzburger. “He said the woods were too remote for bringing up a family. He thought a cultured community like this would be much better for them, and he wondered what we’d think about his coming down here to live.”

  “He certainly got the old charm to work on you, didn’t he?” said Freddy. “And I suppose you told him you’d just love it.”

  “We didn’t go quite as far as that,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “But I will say we didn’t exactly discourage him. Remember, we hadn’t heard your news about Peter and Joseph then.”

  “Who else did he call on?” Freddy asked.

  “Alice and Emma,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “And I believe he stopped in to see Henrietta. She wasn’t very cordial—though perhaps that’s only natural. She talked to him from the henhouse roof. But he told us—and her too—that he wants to give a little talk tomorrow afternoon to anybody that cares to come, on ‘The Wildcat as Citizen,’ or ‘The Home Life of the Wildcat,’ or something like that. We thought it might be interesting, since as he said, we farm animals don’t know much about wildcats. He said we’ve got the wrong idea about them; whoever named them ‘wild’ in the first place had done them a great injustice.”

  “Quite the gentleman of the old school, isn’t he?” said Freddy. “Well, I guess you can see what he’s up to. Trying to make us think he’d be a good neighbor, so that we won’t object to his bringing his family here to live. And then, when Joseph opens his school, and the pupils begin disappearing, we’ll all say: ‘Oh, it can’t be that nice wildcat who’s making the trouble! Why, he was in here to tea only yesterday afternoon, and such a nice, mild-mannered animal you never saw!”