Freddy Goes Camping

by Walter R. Brooks

  Sacks of grain were stacked in one corner; several were torn open and the grain was spilled out on the floor. A half-eaten cheese was on the table, and there were piles of torn up rags along the walls. Everything was pretty dirty.

  Freddy stood in the middle of the floor and called: “Hey, Simon!”

  There was no answer.

  “Hey, Simon!” he called again. “Do you want to get Ezra back? Mr. Eha hasn’t got him any more; I’ve got him. I want to make a deal with you.”

  A grey shadow moved in the darkness of one of the holes that had been gnawed in the baseboard, and then a sharp, grey-whiskered nose and two beady black eyes poked out. “Well, well, well,” squeaked the rat, “as I live and breathe, if it isn’t my old guide and mentor, Freddy the snoop! Welcome, snoop, to rats’ castle. And how can we serve you?”

  “Serve him with sage and plenty of applesauce,” came a voice from beneath the floor, and there were loud snickers and another voice said: “Applesauce is right; he’s the boy can hand it out. Let’s have it, Freddy.”

  “Look, Simon,” Freddy said; “we know all about you and Mr. Eha. We know he’s promised you the Bean barn to live in. That’s one reason you’re working for him. But there’s another reason: he’s locked up your son, Ezra, and unless you do what he wants you to, you won’t get Ezra back. Not all in one piece, anyway. But things have changed since last night. We’re the ones that have got Ezra now. So I think it may be to your advantage to hear my proposition.”

  There was a lot more snickering and giggling under the floor, and a voice said: “OK, pig, now tell us the story of the three bears.”

  “Shut up down there!” Simon snarled.

  Then he came out on to the floor. He sat up and drooped his head and folded his forepaws over his stomach and said humbly: “Freddy, those are words to gladden a father’s heart. To know that my son, my eldest born, is safe in the care of kindly friends—ah, that is the best news that these old ears have heard in many a day. And where is my boy? Is he well? Forgive a father’s anxiety, but the thought of my own son, imprisoned, alone, despairing …” He wiped away an imaginary tear.

  “He isn’t alone,” said Freddy. “Jinx is with him.”

  “A cat! A cruel, clawing cat!” Simon groaned. “But you have promised me that you would release him, that I may again clasp him to my bosom …”

  “A cat! A cruel, clawing cat!” Simon groaned.

  “I’ll release him when you’ve carried out my orders,” Freddy said. “Any bosom-clasping will have to wait a while, I’m afraid. Listen, Simon. First I want you to tell me everything you know about Mr. Eha.”

  Simon grinned slyly. “Oh, you know Mr. Eha? Charming fellow, isn’t he? One of the oldest families in Philadelphia, the Ehas. But I daresay you know him much better than I. We’ve merely met casually, at the club and so on.”

  “Look, rat,” said Freddy sternly; “if you’re not going to play ball with us, say so right out and well know what to do. I’ll just point out that Mr. Eha hasn’t any hold over you any more because he hasn’t got Ezra. We’re the ones that have got him. And if you ever want to see him again you’d better do what we ask you to.”

  “Your threats do not move me,” said Simon, striking a noble pose. “It is true that as a father, the thought of my son’s peril fills me with consternation. But though I am a father, I am first an animal of honor. How could I ever face the world if, simply to save my son, I were basely to betray a trusting associate? I respect you deeply, I have indeed for you a warm personal regard …”

  “Just omit the flowers,” Freddy interrupted, “and answer yes or no.”

  “I profoundly regret that my answer must be no,” said Simon.

  “OK,” said Freddy. “I’ll just give you a warning. We know your plans. We know you’re starting on the Camphor place next, and we’re all there, ready and waiting for you. The animals all came up from the farm today, and Mr. Bean came with them. So watch yourself, rat.” He turned, and with a jerk of his head to Georgie, left the kitchen. Behind him the giggling broke out again, and some of the rats began singing the old song they had made up about Freddy several years ago:

  Freddy the snoop,

  The silly old droop,

  We’ll cut him in pieces and boil him for soup!

  Freddy the sneak,

  We’ll catch him next week,

  And after we’ve caught him, oh boy, how he’ll squeak!

  “My goodness,” said Georgie as they went down the path, “he doesn’t care much about Ezra.”

  “He knows we won’t do anything very bad to him,” Freddy said. “And he still figures that Eha is going to win out.”

  “And I’m afraid he is going to win out, Freddy,” said Mr. Camphor, when they had got back and were sitting on the terrace with him. “Mrs. Filmore just called up and told me that Mr. Anderson had sold Lakeside for her. Sold it for five thousand—about a tenth of what it cost her. Here, have some fudge.” He passed them a heaping plate of candy. “I suppose they’ll start haunting this house now.”

  “I don’t think you ought to have told them that Mr. Bean and all the animals are up here, Freddy,” said Georgie. “We could have ambushed them if you hadn’t said that.”

  “But I told Simon that on purpose,” Freddy said. “We can ambush them all right. Don’t you see?—they’ll tell Eha, and of course Eha will think the Bean farm is going to be unprotected tonight, and my hunch is that he’ll change his plans and attack there first. He’ll think Mrs. Bean is all alone, and he can tear things up and scare her into fits. And that’s a better place to fight him than here: we’ll be playing on our home grounds.”

  “That was right smart of you, Freddy,” said the sheriff, who had come along with them. “Say, this fudge is the cat’s eyeballs. You make it yourself, Mr. Camphor?”

  “My Aunt Minerva made it.”

  “Oh, are you sure, sir?” said Bannister. “It’s not burned.”

  “The proof of the pudding is in the eating—as you said a while ago, Bannister. And I’ll give you another proverb: Two heads are better than one.” Mr. Camphor smiled. “Come on, I’ll show you the two heads.”

  He got up and they followed him around the corner of the house to the kitchen window. They looked in. Miss Minerva was at the table, stirring something in a bowl, and Mr. Bean, in a flowered apron, stood at the stove. He had a spice box in one hand and with the other was stirring a kettle of soup. He dipped the spoon and tasted. “Prime!” he said. “What do you think, ma’am—just a dash more celery salt?”

  Miss Minerva got up and took the spoon and tasted. “No,” she said. “No. One more bay leaf, I think, though.” She dropped a bay leaf in, and they stirred and tasted.

  “Ma’am,” said Mr. Bean, “’tain’t more’n a couple hours since I had my dinner, but I could sit down and eat that whole kettle. You’re the champeen cook of the Western Hemisphere!”

  “Oh, Mr. Bean!” said Miss Minerva with a simper.

  “They’ve been in there swopping recipes all afternoon,” Mr. Camphor whispered. “Funny thing is, all his praising her seems to make the stuff come out better. That fudge was first class.”

  Freddy took his notebook and went off by himself and sat down on the lawn not far from Miss Elmira’s wheel chair. He had a lot of thinking to do. The notebook was indexed, and under A, for convenience in filing he had written: “Aunts, how to get rid of.” He looked at the heading for a while and made a note or two. Then he turned to B, and made another heading: “Bean farm, how to protect.”

  But to protect the farm from Mr. Eha would take a conference of all the animals. They could plan it out when they were walking home after supper—because they would have to leave Mr. Camphor’s before dark. So Freddy turned over to P: “Poem, gloomy (for Miss E.).” “Goodness, I feel gloomy enough,” he thought; “I ought to be able to write something pretty dismal.” He licked his pencil and went to work.

  Miss Elmira didn’t look at Freddy when he sat down in the g
rass beside her wheel chair half an hour later. She just stared off across the lake, and you would have thought by her expression that instead of gay sparkling blue water she was seeing black clouds and tornadoes and thunder and lightning.

  He didn’t begin reading his poem to her right off. He gave a couple of deep groans, followed by a sob or two, and then in a low voice, interrupted by very damp sniffs, he began to recite:

  “Look on me, mournfulest of pigs!

  Ye birds, sit silent on your twigs;

  Sing not to me of joy and glee, restrain your merry carols!

  My eyes are dim, my nose is red,

  Because of all the tears I’ve shed—

  And I shall keep on shedding them, in pints and quarts and barrels.

  “I care not for these sunny hills,

  This garden, bright with laughing rills;

  Grim desert wastes best suit my tastes, or cellars, damp and dismal.

  I like to sob, I love to weep.

  I even snivel in my sleep,

  And when I wake, make no mistake, my grief is still abysmal.”

  At this point Freddy stopped reciting and appeared to break down completely. He buried his face in his handkerchief, and his shoulders shook.

  “More,” said Miss Elmira.

  Freddy looked up at her, wiping the tears from his eyes. And they were real tears all right, because if you pretend to cry hard enough, pretty soon you get to crying in real earnest. You probably know this as well as I do.

  Miss Elmira was looking much less gloomy; her eyes were bright, and the corners of her mouth had taken a slight upward curve. “More, more!” she said, and pounded the arm of her chair with her hand.

  So Freddy went on:

  “And so I sit upon this shore

  And weep and moan and howl and roar

  Because I hate to contemplate a scene so bright and cheery.

  I’ll turn my back on joy and pomp

  And seek me out a deep dark swamp

  Where all the sights are blots and blights, and all the sounds are dreary.

  “And there within that quaking bog,

  Enveloped in unwholesome fog,

  Alone I’ll sit, enjoying it, while black bats flit and tumble;

  There’ll be no sound except the plop

  Of steady tears that drip and drop

  From off my nose into the ooze where alligators grumble.

  “I’d rather be within that swamp

  Than out where children play and romp;

  I hear the bullfrogs calling me, the marsh fires gleam and beckon.

  Oh, there I’ll go—yes, there I’ll go,

  Where I can fill my soul with woe.

  No more I’ll roam, for my true home is in a swamp, I reckon.”

  Freddy stopped again. Miss Elmira was smiling. She put her hand up and fingered her mouth, as if she wanted to feel what a smile was like. She took a little mirror out of her bag and looked in it. “Beautiful!” she said, and Freddy didn’t know whether she meant the smile or the poem. Then she said: “More!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said; “there isn’t any more. Except a sort of chorus. If only I had my guitar, I could sing it to you.” He began to cry again. “But I c-can’t play the guitar!” he sobbed.

  “Sing away,” she commanded.

  He sang:

  “So I weep (sniff, sniff),

  So I cry and sob and moan.

  In the deep (sniff, sniff)

  Dark swamp I’ll be alone.”

  Freddy said afterwards that the sniffs, which were exceedingly damp and realistic, were what really got Miss Elmira. For she laughed right out, a thin high cackle, that appeared to surprise her even more than it did Freddy. “Sing some more!” she said. “I want to hear some more.”

  “That’s all I’ve written so far,” said Freddy. “Perhaps tonight I’ll feel worse, and I’ll write another one for you.”

  “Hey, Freddy!” someone called from the house. He got up and excused himself.

  Miss Elmira held out her hand. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

  Freddy bowed over her hand, and managed to drop a tear on it. “I’ll write some more for you,” he said.

  Bannister came to meet him. “We’re serving a picnic supper, sir—on the terrace. Because of the large number of guests.”

  “What is it tonight, Bannister?” Freddy asked. “Singed soufflé? Burnt broth? Scorched succotash? Cinder stew?”

  “You’re very merry, sir,” said the butler. “I find that is always the effect of sitting a while with Miss Elmira. But you’ll be surprised. Your Mr. Bean has worked wonders with the cooking—just by laying out a few compliments. The supper is excellent.”

  And it was excellent. Mr. Camphor sat at the head of a long table on the terrace with Mrs. Wiggins on his right, and Miss Minerva sat at the foot, with Mr. Bean beside her. The animals were seated along the sides. Bannister served dish after dish, and from the soup right through to the apple pie not a dish was even lightly scorched. Miss Minerva chatted gaily with Mr. Bean, and acknowledged with a pleasant smile the many compliments that Mr. Camphor and the animals showered upon her cooking. “I’ve never seen such a change in anybody in my life,” Freddy murmured to Mr. Camphor.

  “I guess Mrs. Wiggins had the right of it,” Mr. Camphor replied. “And your Mr. Bean showed the way with his compliments. I never praised her in my life, now I come to think of it. I was always too scared of her.”

  “Well,” said Freddy, “it doesn’t cost much to pass out a few words of praise. And it sure gets results. If Miss Minerva gets kind of mellowed down, maybe you won’t be so anxious to have her go.”

  After supper Charles got up and made a speech, thanking Mr. Camphor for his hospitality, and thanking particularly Miss Minerva for what he called “Her display of supreme culinary skill. As an artist,” he said, “in the field of food, she ranks among the great names of all time. For such a dinner as we tonight have had the privilege of adding to the memories of great meals of the past, can only be considered a high work of art. Not Rembrandt, not Shakespeare, not Beethoven, have ever risen to such heights. And we pay tribute to her, not only as artist, but as a great lady. In that field too she reigns supreme. Before her, queens bow the knee, empresses topple from their thrones, duchesses and countesses fall flat on their faces. The brightest stars in the heavens of femininity go pop and expire. Ladies and gentlemen, animals, birds and insects (if any), I call for three cheers for that fairest flower of the Camphor clan, that pearl beyond price, Miss Minerva Camphor!”

  I don’t suppose anybody had ever before given even one feeble cheer for Miss Minerva, and when the animals all got up and shouted, first she blushed, and then she broke right down and cried.

  Then Mr. Bean got up. “I ain’t any great shakes as a speaker,” he said. “I just want to say that I agree—lock, stock and barrel; hook, line and sinker; top, sides and middle—with every word of the last speaker, even though I didn’t understand ’em all. And I call for three more cheers for all the Camphors, whomsoever and wheresoever they may be, whether among those present, or elsewhere and otherwise. And I want to add that if Mrs. B. was here she’d cheer louder than any of you.”

  Then when the cheers had been given, he said: “I don’t like to eat and run, but from all I hear, maybe that Eha figures on payin’ me a call tonight, and I want to heat up a little something for him. So, you animals: we leave in ten minutes. Mr. Camphor, sir, we’ll be back, when and if you need us. And between us, if we can’t pull Eha’s fangs for him we ain’t the man I think we are.”

  Chapter 14

  At ten o’clock that night, the hastily formed Committee for Animal Defence had put the Bean farm in a state of siege. Mr. Bean was on guard inside the house with his shotgun, ready to rush at a second’s notice to any threatened quarter. The smaller animals, and those of the birds who could be trusted to stay awake after dark, were patrolling the farm’s boundaries, with instructions to give warning if the enemy w
as sighted, but to let them through and not put up any resistance. Freddy and Mrs. Wiggins, who headed the Committee as chairman and chairwoman respectively, had set up field headquarters in the cowbarn, which had doors on all four sides, so that animals could enter or leave it without being observed by the enemy. The other animals occupied various strategic posts.

  The animals figured that the attack, when it came, would be double: by the rats, to destroy as much property as possible, and an attempt by Mr. Eha to scare the living daylights out of Mrs. Bean, whom he supposed to be alone in the house. And so the window shades in the parlor, which were usually pulled down to keep the afternoon sun from fading the carpet, had been raised, and all the lights turned on; and Mrs. Bean sat at the table, darning socks. At least she looked from the outside as if she was darning socks, but actually it was so long after her usual nine o’clock bedtime that she had gone sound asleep.

  Several years earlier when the animals had made their famous attack on the Grimby house in the Big Woods, they had been organized into an army, and the organization had been kept up. The birds formed the air arm; the scouts were the rabbits and other small animals; the goat, Bill, the cows, and Hank were the shock troops; and a separate division was formed of all those who had teeth and claws to fight with—Freddy, Jinx, the dogs, Peter, the bear, and his relatives, and John, the fox. Jacob, the wasp, and his family were attached to the air arm as dive bombers, and there was even a chemical warfare division, armed with fire extinguishers and pepper shakers, and a garden sprayer which they had filled with several bottles of household ammonia.

  All in all, a much more formidable garrison than Simon and Mr. Eha, even if they had not supposed the farm unprotected, could have expected to attack. And as it grew later, more volunteers came trickling in from the woods and fields in answer to the appeal for help that Freddy had sent out by rabbit. Sniffy Wilson, the skunk, and his family came, and were attached to the chemical warfare division. Cecil, the porcupine, came, his quills rattling as he walked, and Uncle Solomon, the little screech owl, and even several animals from the Schemerhorn farm.