“Oh, come, Henrietta,” boomed Mrs. Wiggins good-naturedly, “I guess you know me well enough so you don’t think I’m up to any mischief.”
“Birds of a feather flock together,” interrupted the hen. “I can only judge you by the company you keep, ma’am. But of course nothing I can say would do you any good—”
“Oh, call Charles, will you?” demanded Freddy impatiently. “We’ve captured a prisoner and we want to have the judge sentence him.”
“Give him six months,” came the sleepy voice of the rooster from within the coop.
“Why, you don’t even know who it is or what he’s done!” exclaimed Mrs. Wiggins. “Come out, now, Charles, and do your duty as you said you would when you were elected.”
“Give him a year, then,” came the sleepy voice again. “And take him away. I want to go to sleep.”
“There, you’ve got your answer,” said Henrietta. “Now go along and stop your racket. What’ll people think?”
“I know what they’ll think,” said Freddy angrily. “They’ll think we’ve got to get another judge. You wouldn’t elect Peter because you said he slept half the year. How about a judge that won’t stay awake long enough after his election to hear the first case that comes up? Come on, animals; we’ll go get Peter.”
But this didn’t suit the hen at all. She was very proud of having her husband a judge, though she wouldn’t have let him know it for anything, and with a hurried “Wait a minute,” she disappeared inside.
There was a rustling and flapping, a squawk or two, and then the door opened and a very sleepy Charles stood before them. “Wha’sallthis?” hedemanded. “Veryincos—inconsiderate, I call it.” His tongue was thick with sleep, and he leaned against the door-post and closed his eyes.
But a sharp peck from his wife roused him, and he frowned at the prisoner. “What’s he done?” he demanded.
They told their story, and when it was finished, Charles, finally awake, turned to Ezra. “Is there any reason why you shouldn’t go to jail, prisoner?” he asked.
The rat started to say something, looked up craftily at Jinx, who held a heavy paw in readiness, and, lowering his eyes, said meekly: “No, sir.”
“Nothing to say for yourself, eh?” said the judge. “Well, it’s your first offense—or, rather, it’s the first time you’ve been caught, so I’m going to give you a light sentence. Three months in jail. And now I want to say to you, prisoner, that I hope you’ll do some serious thinking during those three months. I hope you’ll see the wisdom of living at peace with your fellow animals and of letting other people’s property alone. I want to say to you—”
But, whatever else it was that he wanted to say, it was lost to the world, for at that moment Henrietta, who had little patience for speeches at any time, and none at all for them in the middle of the night, seized him by the tail-feathers, yanked him inside, and slammed the door.
CHAPTER VII
A CRIME WAVE IN THE BARNYARD
Freddy was now a made pig. His victory over Simon’s gang and the return of the stolen train to Everett brought him a great many cases. He took Mrs. Wiggins into partnership, and it was an excellent combination, he supplying the ideas and she the common sense, neither of which is of much use without the other. They themselves handled only the more difficult cases, turning over the simpler ones to their staff, which consisted of several smaller animals who were good at shadowing and gathering information. Freddy printed a large sign and hung it on the shed which had once been the offices of Barnyard Tours, Inc. It read:
FREDERICK & WIGGINS DETECTIVES
Plain and fancy shadowing. Stolen articles restored. Criminals captured. Missing animals found and returned to bosoms of families. Our unexcelled record makes it worth your while to investigate. Not a loss to a client in more than a century.
Mrs. Wiggins objected at first to the last sentence. “We haven’t been in business but a week,” she said.
“What difference does that make?” asked Freddy. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
She had to admit that it was. “But, don’t you see, it sounds as if we’d been detectives for a long time.”
“That’s just the way I want it to sound,” replied the pig.
So Mrs. Wiggins didn’t say any more.
Pretty soon there were eight animals in the jail. There was Ezra, and there were two rabbits who had stolen some parsnips, and there was a goat named Eric, who had come to the farm to visit his friend Bill and had eaten Mrs. Bean’s filet lace table-cloth and Mr. Bean’s best night-shirt right off the clothes-line. Then there were two snails who had come up on Mrs. Bean’s freshly scrubbed front porch one night and left little shiny trails all over it. And there was a tramp cat who had chased Henrietta up into a tree one day when she was out calling. And finally there was a horse-fly named Zero.
The capture of this fly had been a difficult matter. The two dogs, Jock and Robert, who had been appointed policemen, could of course do nothing about it. Zero was not an ordinary fly who bit and flew away. He had attached himself to Mrs. Wogus. He lived in the cow-barn, and as soon as it was light in the morning, he started biting her. When she went down to the pasture, he followed along and bit her some more. He was very agile, and when she swished her tail at him, he only laughed. Even when she climbed down into the duck-pond and lay in the water with only the tip of her nose showing, he would fly down and bite her nose. It got so bad that she appealed to Freddy.
Now, every night Zero slept on the ceiling of the cow-barn. He was right over Mrs. Wogus, so that as soon as it was light enough for him to see, he could drop down without wasting a second and begin biting. “Perfectly simple matter, Mrs. W.,” said Freddy in his business-like way. “Just you leave it to me.” And he went into the house and borrowed a piece of fly-paper from Mrs. Bean and put it in the cow-barn. “That’ll do the business,” he said.
Early the next morning he was awakened by a great commotion, and he ran out and saw a crowd of animals gathered about the cow-barn. He hurried up to them importantly. “Where’s the prisoner?” he demanded.
They made way for him and he saw, struggling feebly in the sticky paper, not Zero, but Eeny, who had gone into the barn to see Mrs. Wiggins and, knowing nothing about the trap, had walked straight into it.
With some difficulty, and after getting a good deal of stickiness on his own snout, Freddy rescued the unfortunate mouse, while Zero buzzed round impudently overhead. After listening to all the unpleasant things that Eeny’s family had to say to him, the pig went outside to think. Undoubtedly he’d have to try something different now. And he was wondering what it would be when he gave a sharp squeal and jumped into the air. Something had stung him on the ear.
He looked around angrily, and there was Zero circling above his head, and a thin, whining laughter came down to him. “That’s something for you, pig, in exchange for the fly-paper,” buzzed Zero. “It’ll be worse next time, so better leave me alone.” And he flew off in search of Mrs. Wogus.
But Freddy had no intention of being intimidated by a fly. He got some jam and put it on Mrs. Wogus’s nose. “Now,” he said, “get into the pond with just your nose showing. Then when Zero lights, duck under the water for a minute. His feet will be stuck so he can’t get away and he’ll be drowned and that’ll be the end of him.”
So Mrs. Wogus went into the water, and Freddy sat down on the bank to watch. Zero was not in sight for the moment, and Freddy started thinking how clever he was, and then he got to thinking how comfortable he was, and his head nodded and nodded—and he woke up suddenly with a squeal of pain, for Zero had quietly alighted on his snout and bitten him ferociously.
“There’s another for you, pig,” droned the fly as he swooped over the enraged Freddy’s head. “Maybe now you’ll let me alone. I don’t eat jam. It makes me fat, and a fly can’t afford to be fat and slow on his wings these days. Too many birds and wasps around. But pigs! Why, Freddy, you couldn’t catch a blind fly with one wing. No, sir, you—”
But Freddy, although he was hopping mad, was too good a detective to pay much attention to empty insults. Zero’s words had given him an idea. Off he went at a fast trot, stopping only now and then to rub his smarting nose in the cool grass, and presently he was talking to a family of wasps who were building a new house under the eaves of the barn.
“It’s a bad time to ask our help now,” said the father wasp when he had heard what Freddy wanted. “We’ve got this house on our hands, and the days are getting shorter all the time. Still—I might let you have George. Hey, George!”
George was a husky young wasp who was only too glad of any excuse to get away from house-building. Wasps build their houses of chewed-up leaves and things, and George had chewed until his jaws were lame. He listened to Freddy’s instructions and then flew off toward the pasture. The pig trotted along after him.
When they reached the pasture, Mrs. Wogus was not in sight, and Freddy remembered uneasily that he had forgotten to tell her to come out of the pond. Good gracious, she had been sitting there for over an hour now! Sure enough, there was her black nose, smeared with jam, making a queer little island in the water. He threw pebbles at her until she came up; then he explained.
Mrs. Wogus was rather vexed. “You ought to have told me,” she said. “It’s no fun sitting there in the mud and the cold, with nothing to do but shiver. And the way the minnows tickle you, you wouldn’t believe! I do hope I haven’t caught a cold.”
But she soon got warm in the hot sun, and Freddy went over with her into the pasture to watch proceedings. Pretty soon Zero came buzzing along. But this time as he dropped down to settle on Mrs. Wogus’s nose, he heard the deep drone of George’s wings and hastily went into a nose dive, flew right under the cow, then dashed off with the wasp in hot pursuit. It was like an airplane battle, with Zero dodging and twisting and George trying to get above him and drop on him, but it didn’t last long, and presently Zero was driven down to the ground, where he took refuge in a small hole under a stone. George tried to go in after him, but the hole was too small.
“I’ll dig him out,” said Freddy. “You stand by to chase him again.”
So Freddy turned the stone over, and up buzzed Zero into the air, and the chase was on again. But this time when the fly was driven down, he went into a crevice in the stone foundation of the barn.
“You can’t turn that over,” said George. “Guess you’d better give up for today. Some time when I haven’t got so much to do, I’d like nothing better than to catch that insect for you, but I ought to get back now. Father won’t like it.”
“Wait,” said Freddy; “I’ve got an idea. You watch till I come back.”
He went into the barn, and in a few minutes came out with the two spiders, Mr. and Mrs. Webb, who were great friends of his. In no time at all they had woven a web over the entrance of the crevice, and then they had Zero safe and fast. After that there was nothing for the fly to do but surrender, so he came out and the Webbs tied his feet and wings together, and Freddy carried him off to jail.
Freddy was very much pleased when they had eight prisoners in the jail. He wasn’t so much pleased when, a week after the capture of Zero, they had thirty-four. “I don’t understand it,” he said to Mrs. Wiggins. “I suppose it must be one of these crime waves we read about.”
“We’ll have to enlarge the jail, at this rate,” said Mrs. Wiggins.
“There’ll be more animals inside than out,” said Freddy.
They were strolling down through the pasture, and a number of strange animals passed them, going toward the barnyard. At last one, a motherly-looking Jersey cow, stopped and asked the way to the jail.
Freddy pointed it out to her. “Nothing wrong, I hope?” he said. “I mean, none of your family or friends are—er—in, are they?”
“Oh no,” said the cow. “But I’ve heard of those poor animals locked up in jail, and I do feel so sorry for them, poor things! It’s just dreadful not to be able to get out in the fresh air among their friends.”
“If they’d behaved themselves, they wouldn’t be there,” said Freddy.
“Oh yes, I know,” said the cow, “but it’s so horrible to be locked up, isn’t it? It makes me quite sad to think of them.” And a tear rolled down her broad cheek.
“As a matter of fact, they have a pretty easy time,” put in Mrs. Wiggins. “Play games and lie round and get lots to eat. I don’t think you need be so sorry for them.”
“I suppose it is silly of me,” replied the other, “but I’ve always been that way. Anyone in trouble just wrings my heart strings. And it’s better to be too tender-hearted, I always say, than to run the risk of getting too hard. Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Freddy. “But I wouldn’t get very tender-hearted about that bunch of prisoners. They’re a tough lot.”
“Well,” said the cow, “perhaps you’re right. But I thought I’d just go down and see if there wasn’t anything I could do to make things easier for them. I can’t bear to think of them being unhappy. It hurts me here.” And she tapped her left side with her right front hoof.
When the cow had gone on, Freddy said: “That’s one reason—all these sentimental animals that come to visit the jail and feel sorry for the prisoners and want to do things for them. After all, they’re there to be punished, not to have a good time. And we treat ’em well. There’s no reason to cry over them and bring them better food than they ever get at home.—Why, what are you getting so red for?” he demanded suddenly. For a blush had overspread Mrs. Wiggins’s large face.
You have probably never seen a cow blush. And indeed the sight is unusual. There are two reasons for this. One is that cows are a very simple people, who do whatever they feel like doing and never realize that sometimes they ought to be embarrassed. You might think that they lack finer feelings. And in a way they do. They are not sensitive. But they are kind and good-natured, and if sometimes they seem rude, it is only due to their rather clumsy thoughtlessness.
The other reason is that cows’ faces are not built for blushing. But as Mrs. Wiggins was so talented above her sisters in other directions, it is not to be marveled at that she could blush very handsomely.
Her flush deepened as Freddy spoke. “Why, I—now that you speak of it,” she stammered, “I see that you’re right, but—well, Freddy—land’s sakes, I might as well confess it to you—I got to feeling sorry for those prisoners myself yesterday, especially those two goats. It seemed such a pity they couldn’t be jumping round on the hills instead of sweltering in that hot barn. And I went out and got them a nice bunch of thistles for their supper.”
Freddy frowned. “That’s it!” he exclaimed. “That’s just it! Sentimentality, that’s what’s going to ruin our jail. I did think, Mrs. W., that you had more sense!”
The cow looked a little angry. “If I knew what you were talking about,” she said stiffly, “perhaps I might agree with you.”
“Being sentimental?” said Freddy. “I’ll tell you what it is. It’s going round looking for someone or something to cry over, just for the fun of crying. You knew you weren’t doing those goats any good. You just wanted to have a good time feeling sorry.”
The nice thing about Mrs. Wiggins was that she always admitted it when she was wrong. She did so now after she had thought about it for a few minutes. “I guess you’re right, Freddy,” she said. “I won’t do it again.—But, good grief, what’s that rabbit up to?”
Freddy had noticed the rabbit too. It had hopped out of the long grass, turned and looked straight at them, then deliberately went into the garden where Mr. Bean grew lettuce and radishes and other vegetables and began nibbling at a head of lettuce. Now, no animals were allowed in this garden except the head squirrel and his gang, who did the weeding and could be trusted not to eat the vegetables. So Freddy was greatly shocked by such bold behavior.
“Come, come!” he shouted, hurrying up to the rabbit. “You’re a bold one, I must say! You just come along with m
e. You’re under arrest.”
“Yes, sir,” said the rabbit meekly. “Do we go to jail right away?”
“Jail?” said Freddy. “I guess we do go to jail, just as soon as the judge can sentence you.”
The rabbit looked quite pleased at this and started hopping off, his mouth still full of lettuce leaves.
“Stop!” called Freddy, hurrying after him. “No use your trying to escape. Better come along quietly. You’ll just make matters worse for yourself if you don’t.”
“I wasn’t trying to escape,” said the rabbit. “I was just starting for the hen-house so I could be sentenced.—I really was, sir,” he added, as Freddy stared at him in amazement.
The pig was rather puzzled. The rabbit was evidently telling the truth, and yet such eagerness to be punished didn’t seem reasonable. “You’re a queer one,” said Freddy. “I don’t believe you understand. You’ve been stealing lettuce, and it’s against the rules, and you’re going to be punished by being sent to jail.”
“But I do understand, sir,” replied the prisoner. “I know I’ve done wrong, and—well, sir, I think I ought to be punished. As a lesson to me, sir. I ought to know better than to do such things.”
“H’m,” said Freddy, “you’re saying all the things I ought to say. Still, they’re true, and I’m glad you see it. Only if you feel that way, I can’t see why you stole the lettuce in the first place.”
“I can tell you that,” said the rabbit. “But—well, I’d rather wait until after I’m sentenced.”
“All right,” said the pig. “And I’ll do my best with the judge to see that your sentence isn’t a long one. I’m sure you won’t do it again.”
“Oh, yes I shall!” exclaimed the rabbit anxiously. “Yes, sir, I’m apt to do things like that any time. I’m quite a desperate character, sir, really I am. You’d better get me a good long sentence.”
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