Freddy Goes Camping

by Walter R. Brooks

“I am his son. And if you let me out—I tell you he’s offered a big reward for me and you’ll get it all,” he said eagerly. “Look, you tell me where you live and he’ll bring it to you. Tomorrow.”

  “H’m,” said Freddy, “you’re a better liar than I am, Ezra.” He took off his cap. “Know me now?”

  “Oh, gosh!” said Ezra. “Freddy! Oh, gee, I’m sunk now all right.” And he lay down on the floor of the cage.

  “Maybe so,” said the pig, and he picked up the trap and started down the trail to camp. “If you tell me what we want to know, maybe we’ll let you go.”

  The two men were up and getting breakfast. They didn’t think much of Freddy’s capture. “He’s just one of the gang,” said Mr. Camphor. “Now if you’d captured them all.… Sit down and have some coffee.”

  “He’s Simon’s son,” said Freddy. “My guess is that in the hurry of getting away last night they forgot all about him down in the boat-house. But Mr. Eha doesn’t want to lose him, because Ezra is the only hold he has over Simon, and he needs Simon’s help for his scheme. I bet you anything he comes back for Ezra tonight.”

  “And then what do we do?” said Mr. Camphor. “Chase him around in the woods and make faces at each other again?”

  “The trouble is,” Freddy said, “that we don’t know who Eha is. Maybe Simon knows, but I don’t believe that the other rats do. I don’t think Ezra knows anything. Eh, Ez?” he said, glancing at the cage.

  The rat made a face at him.

  “But I’m pretty sure he lives in Centerboro,” Freddy went on, “because—look at these.” And he drew out the slips of paper he had found in Eha’s coat. They were checks for meals that someone had eaten at Dixon’s Diner. “He must eat at the diner often,” Freddy said, “because he wouldn’t be able to sneak every check he got into his pocket and walk out without paying, which is what he must have done. For how else could he have got them? You know what?—I’m going down to Centerboro and try to find him this afternoon.”

  “Well, even if you did find out who he was,” said Mr. Camphor, “the police wouldn’t believe any such story. Rats and ghosts! They’d just give you the old heave-ho.”

  “Sure. We won’t bother the police. We’ll just bother Mr. Eha. You leave it to the old reliable firm—they know how to handle crooks.—Hey!” he said suddenly. “What goes on?” And he pointed across the lake.

  Far across where the lawns of the Camphor estate made a pale green line on the distant shore, something white fluttered.

  “Someone waving a tablecloth,” said Bannister.

  “Must be something wrong,” said Mr. Camphor, getting up. “Better go see.”

  Freddy sat in the middle of the canoe with the rat trap on his knees, and under the strong strokes of Mr. Camphor and the butler the canoe cut sharply through the blue and silver ripples. As they came closer the lawns widened out, the house and the dock and the trees grew larger, and a group at the edge of the water grew more distinct. “Ha!” Freddy exclaimed. “Reinforcements!” And there indeed were nearly all the animals from the Bean farm—Mrs. Wiggins and one of her sisters, Mrs. Wogus, Charles and Henrietta, Robert and Georgie, the dogs, Jinx, and even the four mice: Eek and Quik and Eeeny and Cousin Augustus. “And my gracious!” said Freddy. “There’s Mr. Bean too!”

  It was indeed Mr. Bean who stepped forward and held the canoe for them as they climbed out.

  “Very pleased to see you, sir,” said Mr. Camphor, shaking hands with him. “I take it you’ve heard about the plans this villain Eha has for getting hold of our property, and have brought these animals up to defeat him.”

  “’Tain’t my doing,” said Mr. Bean. “Mrs. Bean, she heard about it somewheres.” He frowned slightly. He was kind of old-fashioned about having animals talk; it made him uneasy, and he always said animals should be seen and not heard. So Freddy and his friends seldom said anything to him; if there was anything important they told Mrs. Bean. He never asked her where such information came from. But of course he knew, and was pretty proud, secretly, of having such clever animals.

  Mr. Bean went on: “Mrs. Bean says: ‘Mr. B.,’ says she, ‘don’t you let those animals go up to Camphor’s alone.’ ‘Well, Mrs. B.,’ says I, ‘I figure our Freddy is running this show, and I don’t ever interfere with him. If he wants my help he knows he can ask for it and get it.’ ‘But ’cordin’ to what I hear,’ she says, ‘this rapscallion Eha is going to try to get our place next.’ ‘And I’ll be ready for him,’ I says; ‘but,’ says I, ‘if Mr. Camphor and this hotel woman’s in trouble, maybe it’s only neighborly for me to traipse along. If they don’t want me, they can tell me so.’”

  “And we’re very grateful,” said Mr. Camphor, seizing Mr. Bean’s hand and shaking it again. “Come up on the terrace and we’ll talk it over. Bannister, the twenty-five cent cigars.”

  The animals had stood quietly listening. They were bursting with questions for Freddy, but they knew their talk would disturb Mr. Bean and they respected his wishes for they were very fond of him. As the men turned away, they gathered around the pig, but before they could say anything a shrill voice called: “Jimson! Jimson Camphor! What are all those animals doing here?” And they saw Miss Minerva’s gaunt figure striding angrily down towards them.

  “Oh, just some friends of mine,” said Mr. Camphor. “Aunt Minerva, may I present Mr. William Bean?”

  “How do,” she said shortly. “Are you the—the manager of this menagerie? These are private grounds; you can’t bring these animals in here.”

  “Come, come, Aunt,” said Mr. Camphor, “after all, they’re my grounds, and—”

  Mr. Bean laid a hand on his arm and winked one eye. Then he turned to Miss Minerva and said with a courtly bow: “My dear lady, I assure you that we are here only to serve you. To protect you from the villain who is plotting to defraud your nephew of his fine property.”

  “What villain?” said Miss Minerva. “I know nothing about any plot.”

  “Well, there is one,” put in Mr. Camphor, and he told her about Mr. Eha and his schemes.

  “Folderol!” she exclaimed. “I never heard such nonsense. You men are all the same: scared of your own shadows and seeing bogies behind every bush. Where is this Eha? Let me talk to him.”

  “That’s just the trouble, ma’am,” said Mr. Bean. “We don’t know who he is, or where or when he may strike. However, you have requested me to leave. And a Bean, ma’am, could never refuse the request of so charming a lady. Come, animals!”

  The animals of course couldn’t move. They stared at Mr. Bean and their eyes almost fell out of their sockets. For this was a Mr. Bean they didn’t know. These polished manners, these lavish compliments—they could hardly believe their ears.

  Miss Minerva’s face relaxed into what might have been the beginning of a smile, and she looked sidelong at Mr. Bean. “Well,” she said slowly, “if you put it that way …”

  “I do put it that way, ma’am,” he replied firmly. “That is exactly how I put it. A charming and cultured lady like yourself—who am I to refuse your lightest request?”

  Miss Minerva really smiled now. “Flatterer!” she said, and squeaked faintly with pleasure, and she continued to look curiously at him.

  But nobody ever found out anything about Mr. Bean by looking at him. Behind those whiskers he might have been handsome or plain, he might be smiling or scornful—nobody ever knew, not even Mrs. Bean.

  “Come, animals,” he said again.

  “Wait!” said Miss Minerva. “Perhaps—perhaps I have been too hasty. Come,” she said, putting her hand through his arm, “let us go up on the terrace and you can tell me more of this plot.”

  “Well, great day in the morning!” said Mr. Camphor, staring after them.

  Mrs. Wiggins laughed her comfortable laugh. “I told you you’d get along better with her if you’d pay her a compliment once in a while,” she said.

  Mr. Camphor closed his eyes a moment in intense thought. Then he opened them and said to the
butler: “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast. I think that proverb about covers it, eh, Bannister?”

  “No doubt, sir, if you can classify that voice as music. And on the other hand, there’s this one: Fine words butter no parsnips.”

  “Ha,” said Mr. Camphor; “Aunt Minerva’s no parsnip, but I’d say he buttered her up all right.”

  The animals had surrounded Freddy and were talking and laughing and congratulating him on his capture of Ezra. “Hurrah for Freddy!” they shouted. “He brings ’em back alive! Freddy always gets his animal.” Jinx pushed through the crowd. He put a paw on the trap and peered in at the rat, who squeezed back into a corner. “What you got in this birdcage, Freddy? Pretty little thing, ain’t he? Can he sing?”

  “Like a thrush, Jinx; like a thrush,” said Freddy. “Want to hear him? Give us a song, Ez.”

  “Aw, you think you’re awful funny,” Ezra snarled. “You just wait till Mr. Eha gets here, you big stuck-up—Ouch!” he squeaked. “You quit that!” For Jinx had reached through the wires and cuffed his ear.

  “You hadn’t ought to do that, Jinx,” said Mrs. Wiggins.

  “Well then let him quit calling names, the grimy sneak,” said Jinx.

  The rat sneered at him. “Who’s calling names now? If I wasn’t in a cage, you wouldn’t talk so big.”

  “Oh, shut up, both of you!” said Freddy. “Now look, animals. Mr. Eha is going to make plenty of trouble for all of us if we don’t stop him. Once we know who he is, we can pepper his hash all right. So I’m going down to Centerboro and find out. Georgie, I need your help; will you go with me?”

  “Gee, you bet I will!” said the little brown dog.

  “All right. We’ll see if Bannister will drive us down, to save time. And the rest of you—my goodness, I’m glad you came up today; you’re going to be needed. Until I get back, the main thing is to see that Ezra doesn’t get away. And keep an eye out for Simon and the rest of the gang. I have a hunch they’re around here somewhere, and they might try a rescue.”

  Chapter 11

  Freddy didn’t know just what he might get into in Centerboro, and he thought it would be better if nobody recognized him. So he borrowed a derby hat and a dark suit from Mr. Camphor, who was really just about his size. With these on, and carrying the medicine case marked Henry Hopper M.D., he could easily have been taken for an undersized medical man, just going out on a call.

  He gave Georgie his instructions and posted him at the door of Dixon’s Diner, and then he went in and sat at the counter and ordered a cup of cocoa. It wasn’t dinner time yet, so there were no other customers.

  Mr. Dixon was a little round worried looking man. He put the cocoa in front of Freddy and said: “Stranger in town?”

  “What do you think?” said Freddy, and took off the derby.

  “Why, you’re Freddy!” said Mr. Dixon. “Good gracious me—you investigating another crime?”

  “Ssssssh!” said Freddy, putting the derby back on. “Not a word! Yes, a very serious crime, and I think maybe you can help me. Ever hear of a Mr. Eha?”

  “Eha?” said Mr. Dixon. “That ain’t a name. It’s a laugh, ain’t it, like Ha-ha! or O-ho-ho!?”

  “It may not be his real name,” Freddy said. “But I can tell you something else about him: he’s been coming in here and eating, and then sneaking out without paying his check. I found these unpaid checks in his pocket.” Freddy spread them out on the counter.

  “I’ve got some customers that do that,” said Mr. Dixon. “I guess I don’t watch them as carefully as I should.” He examined the checks. “Let’s see—corned beef and cabbage on the eighteenth—that was Friday. Now who had corned beef Friday? Judge Willey did, but he wouldn’t skip without paying. So did Mr. Beller. H’m. Let’s try another—there’s too many of ’em like corned beef. Here, now—pigs’ knuckles and sauer …” He broke off suddenly and slipped the check under the others. “Let’s—er, let’s see this one,” he said hastily. “The twenty-first, Monday; a double order of fresh caviare. Ah ha! I know who had that! It was—” He stopped short again. “No,” he said. “No, I can’t tell you who that was.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  “Look, Freddy,” said Mr. Dixon, lowering his voice, although there was no one else in the diner, “there’s some folks I can’t afford to have mad at me. I know who this is. He does it a lot. But I dassen’t say anything to him. I let him get away with it rather than have a fuss. And if you’ll take my advice, you’ll lay off him too. He’s a tough baby; he’d shoot you as soon as look at you.”

  Freddy knew he wasn’t going to get anything more out of Mr. Dixon—the man was too scared of Mr. Eha. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Let’s skip it. I think I …” He swung round on his stool. Outside, Georgie was barking—three barks, then two; bow-wow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow-wow, bow-wow. “Whoops!” said Freddy, and grabbed his medicine case and dashed out of the door.

  Main Street was full of people, but there was Georgie, following a tall man in a dark suit. And as Freddy caught up, he realized that a strong smell of mothballs was also following the tall man.

  The dog dropped back when he saw Freddy. “You know who he is?” he asked.

  “Never saw him before. We’ll follow along and see; he certainly smells right.”

  “I think he might have come in on the eleven o’clock bus,” said the dog. “He came from that way.”

  They followed him to a house on Elm Street before which a lot of cars were standing. Other people were coming up the street and turning in there, and Freddy motioned Georgie to wait by the gate and followed the man up the steps and to the door, which was opened by a maid in a little cap and apron. They went into the hall, side by side. The maid took the man’s hat from him, and then held out her hand for Freddy’s derby. And Freddy realized that he couldn’t take it off. If he did, he would be recognized, and even if he wasn’t thrown out, everybody would know that an uninvited detective had got in.

  Looking through the doorway into the parlor, Freddy saw a lot of people all standing around laughing and talking at the top of their lungs, and at the far end flowers and potted palms were banked up. The man went in and began shaking hands with people. And the maid said sharply: “Your hat, sir?”

  “I’m a—a Quaker,” said Freddy quickly. “You ought to know, my girl, that Quakers never take their hats off in the house. Look at Benjamin Franklin.”

  “Where?” said the girl, peering into the other room.

  “Skip it,” said Freddy. “Look here, wasn’t that Mr. Alfred Beagle that came in with me?”

  “No sir, that was Mr. Platt, the bride’s uncle.”

  “Lives on upper Dugan Street?”

  “No, sir; he came from Tushville for the wedding.”

  The maid turned away to open the door for some other guests, and Freddy watched Mr. Platt. “Wish I could get my hand in that coat pocket,” he thought. “I wonder if he really is Mr. Eha? He smells pretty strong for just three mothballs. I’ve got to get into that room, but I can’t with this hat on.” Then he had an idea, and when the maid’s back was turned he darted quickly up the stairs.

  In the upstairs hall he listened. There were voices in one room; he slid by the door and popped into the one next to it. It was empty. He shut the door and listened, and as he did so, he heard someone start to play the wedding march on a piano, and then the people in the other room came out and started downstairs. “I wonder,” he said to himself, “what’s in that closet?”

  Five minutes later Freddy came downstairs. He wore a dress with big roses all over it which he had pulled right on over Mr. Camphor’s suit. Instead of the derby, which, with the medicine case, he had dropped out of the open window, he wore a large floppy garden hat. The wedding ceremony had started; nobody paid any attention to him as he teetered into the parlor in his high-heeled shoes and worked his way slowly over towards where Mr. Platt was standing.

  Five minutes later, Freddy came downstairs.

&nbs
p; The ceremony went on. A tall woman, standing beside him, bent down and whispered: “Doesn’t Janey make a lovely bride?”

  “Never saw her look lovelier,” Freddy whispered back truthfully.

  The tall woman sniffed and touched her eyes with her handkerchief. “So sad, I think, weddings,” she said.

  Freddy thought he’d better sniff too, as most of the women in the room seemed to be doing it. Unfortunately, his handkerchief was in his pants pocket, and he couldn’t get at it without causing a lot of notice. But two or three of the guests were now crying pretty hard, so he gave a couple of good loud sobs in order not to be conspicuous.

  And then the ceremony was over, and the people began milling around, and everybody was gay again. Freddy couldn’t figure it out. But he didn’t have any time to try. He followed Mr. Platt, who pushed through the crowd and kissed the bride.

  “Oh, Uncle Joe,” she said, “I was so afraid you wouldn’t come! When you wrote that you didn’t have a decent suit to wear—goodness, you could have come in your overalls—you know it wouldn’t make any difference to me.”

  “Didn’t have to,” said Mr. Platt. “Fred Bullock lent me this suit—it’s the one he was married in, and hasn’t been out of the trunk since. Kind of a wedding suit, I guess you’d call it. We just slid the mothballs out of it and slid me into it, and here I am.”

  “Oh, that’s what I smell!” she said. “I thought it was some new kind of soap.”

  “We didn’t have time to air it much,” said Mr. Platt. “I kind of like the smell myself.”

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t. But no matter how you smell, you’ll always be my favorite uncle.”

  “Darn it,” Freddy thought, “this can’t be Eha either. I’d better get out of here.” But before he could slip away, the bride had flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, mother,” she said, “wasn’t it lovely? But why this dress?—I thought you were going to wear the other …” She broke off and pushed him away. “Why, you’re not my mother!” she exclaimed.