She took out her handkerchief and went over to her sister, wiping her eyes. “My poor Elmira,” she said, “how fortunate that you are no longer alone in your sadness. What a blessing that there are others—many others—who are even more sorrowful and despondent than you are!”
“They are not!” snapped Miss Elmira. She had been getting more and more restless, and with the words she sat up in her chair.
“EE-e-eeyowl-er-owl!” wailed Jinx.
“When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” said Bannister, and fell sobbing on Mr. Camphor’s shoulder.
Miss Elmira stared around defiantly at the grief-stricken group. She seemed very much disturbed, and Freddy began to feel that Charles had been right. She had always held the center of the stage, as the hopelessly sad person who had to be deferred to and coddled. But now she was just one of the chorus, one among many, all of whom seemed more startlingly dismal than she was.
“She’s not the queen bee any more,” he thought. “She’s like sick people, who feel important because everybody else in the house waits on them, and then they go to a hospital where everybody is sick, and they don’t like it.” Then he was aware that she was beckoning to him.
“That swamp,” she said when he went over to her. “Where is it?”
“You mean the swamp I wrote the poem about? Why, I guess I was thinking of the Great Dismal Swamp. It’s in Virginia, isn’t it?”
“Bannister,” she said, “place reservation to nearest point.”
“Yes, madam,” said Bannister, taking out his notebook. “Bus from Centerboro to Rome, plane from Rome to nearest point touching the swamp. I’ll look that up, madam.”
Miss Elmira said: “I’ll pack my bag,” and got up and followed him as lightly and easily as if she’d been exercising regularly, instead of sitting for days on end in a wheel chair.
“Well, I’ll be darned!” said Mr. Camphor.
“Good gracious,” said Freddy, “do you think she can take a trip like that? You think she’ll be all right?”
“Look at her,” said Mr. Camphor. “In those shawls and with that expression, can’t you see people falling over themselves to give her the best seat in the bus? Everybody will want to help the poor old lady. My goodness, next time I travel, I’m going to put on a long white beard and carry a cane, and then maybe I won’t have to stand up half the way.”
“You do really think she’ll be all right, Jimson?” said Miss Minerva. “I’ve looked after her for so long …”
“Certainly I do. She’ll get herself a little place on the edge of the swamp, and she’ll be as happy as a toad in a mud puddle. Or as gloomy. Matter of fact, maybe she plans to go down there and work up an extra case of gloom and then come back and show us all up.”
Miss Minerva looked out across the lake, and then up at the sky. “Dear me,” she said, “I do believe the sun is going to come out.”
“It does seem brighter,” said Mr. Camphor, “but the clouds are just as heavy.”
“What’s brighter is that Miss Elmira’s gone,” Freddy said.
Chapter 17
Freddy hadn’t wanted Miss Minerva to go camping with them. He thought it would be a bother to have to keep feeding her compliments all day long so she wouldn’t be cranky. And he had an idea she might be bossy. But as a matter of fact she was no trouble at all. She not only did her full share of the work, but she turned out to be good company. Some people are like that; in a different setting they are different people. Of course he and Camphor kept up the compliments; they weren’t taking any chances.
But though Miss Minerva was an experienced woodsman, and even went out with her hatchet and built and roofed her own lean-to shelter, she had what Freddy thought were pretty silly ideas about fixing things up. She decorated the camp. She had brought along a lot of ribbons and doodads, and she put little frills and bows on everything. There was a little red bow on the frying pan, and big splashy pink bows on the canoe paddles, and she even had Jinx wearing a very fancy plaid bow around his neck. Mr. Camphor said: “That’s what they call the feminine touch.” He smiled at the cat. “Makes you look quite chic and charming, Jinx; quite one of the ten best dressed cats of the social season.”
“Aw, choke it off, will you?” said Jinx. “If she wasn’t so handy with a hatchet, do you think I’d let her make a monkey out of me like this?”
“Yeah, I think you would,” said Freddy. “Or was it some other cat I saw a little while ago admiring himself in Mr. Camphor’s shaving mirror?”
Jinx stalked off angrily. But he didn’t take off the bow.
The first night Freddy put the carton containing the bug volunteers in the shelter where he and Mr. Camphor slept. Or rather, where they tried to sleep. For the crickets sang and chirped and sawed away on their fiddles all night long. Mr. Camphor sat up finally and lit the candle. “Are you awake, Freddy?” he said.
“Well, what do you think?” said the pig, sitting up too.
“I think we’ve got to do something about this. Good heavens, don’t those creatures ever go to bed?”
“I don’t know much about the sleeping habits of bugs,” Freddy said. “Let’s talk to Webb.”
He took the cover off the carton and Mr. Webb climbed out and crawled into his ear, but not so far that it would tickle, and said: “I’m sorry about this, Freddy. We’ve tried every way we know to keep ’em quiet, even threatened to eat them. Mother’s about frantic. She tied up a couple of them so they couldn’t fiddle, but the others just cut them loose.”
“But what’s it all about?” Freddy asked.
“Sort of a patriotic rally, I gather. One of ’em started singing The Night Before the Battle, Mother, and they all chimed in. Now they’re singing the Bean Marching Song.”
“Sounds like just a lot of chirping to me.”
“Sure. To me too. Modern stuff, I guess. Why don’t you souse ’em in the lake?”
“Well,” said Freddy, “I had you hire the noisiest bugs I could think of for this job; I oughtn’t to kick if they do what I expected them to do. I’ll take the carton down and leave it under the canoe.” So he did, and slept like a top the rest of the night.
Freddy had a good time in the next two days. It was fun camping. They explored the woods and the lake, and he practiced paddling, and found every hour of the day packed with a dozen new things to learn and interesting things to do. Of course the main reason he enjoyed it so much was because he had a comfortable place to sleep at night. Lots of inexperienced campers come back from a trip, red-eyed and worn out from lack of sleep, and looking as if they had been dragged backwards through a briar patch. Freddy was lucky in having Mr. Camphor to show him the right way to do things at the start.
They explored the woods and the lake.
The second day they went down to Lakeside and looked around. Carpenters were repairing the porch, and Gormley’s, the plumber’s, truck was parked beside the road. A woman was shaking a dust mop from an upper window. They went back to camp without asking any questions. But the following morning at breakfast they heard someone coming down the trail, and Jinx and Georgie and Charles disappeared into the bushes as Mr. Anderson appeared. He walked up to them. “Good morning. Mr. Camphor, isn’t it? I’m Anderson.” Then he looked at Freddy, who no longer wore his disguise. “Haven’t I seen you before?”
“Very likely,” said Freddy. “I’m around Centerboro a lot.” And he thought: “He knows I’m after him, but he isn’t sure whether or not I know he’s Mr. Eha.”
“This is Freddy, the well-known detective,” said Mr. Camphor. “And my aunt, Miss Minerva Camphor.”
Mr. Anderson bowed, but turned again to Freddy. “The detective?” he said. “Oh yes. Must be interesting work. Following people and peeking through keyholes and listening behind doors. Though I wouldn’t care for such sneaky work myself.” He laughed with false heartiness.
“He’s trying to make me mad so I’ll give myself away,” Freddy thought. But two could play that game. He said calmly: �
�I doubt if you’d be much good at it. You’re a pretty big man. You’d be always tripping and falling over things.” He grinned at Mr. Anderson. “You probably lose your temper pretty easily too, don’t you?”
Mr. Anderson’s face got darker red, and he glared, breathing hard through his nose. But Mr. Camphor said: “Sit down. Sit down and have a flapjack. You’ll like them, I think, if you’ve never tried one of my flapjacks.”
Freddy thought for a minute that Mr. Anderson was going to burst into small pieces; for the ghost, of course, had not only tried one of Mr. Camphor’s flapjacks, he had wrestled with one. But he controlled himself. Evidently he felt certain that they didn’t know that he was Eha. “Thank you,” he growled and sat down. Freddy noted with pleasure that he sat down very slowly and carefully, on account of birdshot.
“I understand,” said Miss Minerva, “that you’ve bought Lakeside. My sister and I spent many pleasant summers there. What has become of dear Mrs. Filmore?”
Mr. Anderson had managed to choke back his rage. “A great pity,” he said. “She couldn’t make a go of it. I didn’t buy it myself, though. I am merely acting for a group of New York capitalists—getting it in shape to open. Next month, we hope. I trust that you and your sister will stay with us again?”
“We plan to,” said Miss Minerva with an odd smile. “Though I suppose you won’t be there?”
“Oh, yes, I moved up last night; I shall be there from now on.”
He ate several flapjacks and they talked of this and that. Freddy didn’t needle him any more, and after a while he got up and went back to Lakeside.
“He didn’t find out much,” said Mr. Camphor. “But we didn’t accomplish anything either.”
“Oh, yes we did,” said Freddy. “The Webbs are riding back to the hotel on his coat collar. Now we’ve got spies right in the enemy’s camp.”
The day was spent in planning and preparation, and that evening, as soon as it got dark, Freddy left Mr. Camphor and Miss Minerva beside the campfire and moved his forces up. With Jinx scouting in advance, they carried the box containing the bug allies up the trail as far as the edge of the Lakeside lawn. From there the bugs proceeded on foot, under the leadership of the head cricket, up to the porch, where Mr. and Mrs. Webb were to take charge. Homer and the four mice went with them, but the others stayed back among the trees.
The carpenters and plumbers had gone home at five o’clock, but Mr. Anderson’s car stood on the lawn with another old car beside it. There were lights in two of the upper hotel windows. Nothing happened for a while, and then Freddy saw a very faint and tiny glow of light coming towards him through the grass. It didn’t come in a straight line, but wavered from side to side, and as it came closer he saw that it was Homer, with a firefly on his head to light the way. Beside the firefly stood a spider, and Freddy could see that they were hanging on by a strand of web that was looped like a bridle around the snake’s neck.
“Boy, was that firefly a good idea, Freddy!” said Homer. “Just like having headlights. I can travel twice as fast at night.”
“Well, you’ll travel without me next time,” said Mrs. Webb tartly, and climbed shakily up on Freddy’s nose. “If anybody ever invites you to go snake-back riding, Freddy, you just politely excuse yourself. That canoe ride over here was bad enough, but this was ten times worse. Why any mortal creature can’t go from one place to another in a straight line, instead of dodging and zigzagging all over creation, beats me!”
“Now, now, Mother Webb,” said Homer, “lots of folks pay good money to get a ride like that on roller coasters at amusement parks.” He glided over to Georgie and began teasing him with baby talk.
Mrs. Webb snorted. It was a pretty small snort, of course, but very expressive. Then she gave Freddy her report.
Mr. Anderson was not alone in the hotel. He had brought a couple named Jones up from Centerboro to help get the place in shape, and later to act as handy man and housekeeper. The old car was theirs, and they had the lighted room in the back. Mr. Anderson’s was the front one.
“Mr. Webb is getting the crickets placed now,” she said, “in cracks and keyholes and safe places where they can’t be caught. They’ll start in as soon as the lights are out. That’s all you’re going to do tonight, isn’t it?”
“That ought to be enough for Anderson tonight,” Freddy said. “We just want to wear him down by keeping him awake. But those Joneses—can anybody get into their room?”
“The mice were going to gnaw holes in both rooms, so we could all get in and out easily.”
“They’d better do that tomorrow in the daytime, when nobody’ll hear them,” said Freddy. “We’ll just try crickets tonight, to see how it works. Homer had better go back and help keep an eye on things, but since that ride over here made you seasick, you might as well stay here.”
“No, no; I’ll go back,” said the spider. “I don’t like to leave Father alone. He’s right in Anderson’s room, under the bed. And he’s got one or two ideas I’d just as soon he didn’t try out. You know how daring he is. He’ll be more careful if I’m there.” So pretty soon she and the firefly got on Homer’s head and started out.
After a few minutes the light in the Joneses’ room went out, and then Mr. Anderson’s window was put up. They saw him lean out and look at the night, then he disappeared and his light went out too. And immediately through the stillness came the chirp of a cricket. Another joined in, and then another, until pretty soon the whole night seemed to be full of their singing. “Golly,” said Freddy in an awed tone, “I bet you can hear them halfway across the lake.”
After about five minutes of it the lights went on again in both rooms—and every sound was cut off short. Shadows moved across the lights, and Mr. Anderson’s window went down with a bang. The lights went out … and the crickets started fiddling.
Four times this happened, and each time the lights were left on longer. “They’re trying to find the crickets,” Freddy said. “I hope Webb found safe places for them. You know what Anderson will do if he finds one.”
“I know what I’d do,” said Georgie.
“Remember how we yelled under old Witherspoon’s window that night, to keep him awake?” said Jinx.
“That’s what gave me the idea,” Freddy said. “Only we’ve got to do a lot more to Anderson before we get through. We’ve got to make him mad. We’ve got to make him so mad he’ll begin doing foolish things. Then we’ll have him.”
“You mean,” said Charles, “that that’s the only idea you’ve got for getting rid of him?”
“Sure,” said Freddy. “Why?”
“Well, it’s the silliest thing I ever heard of!” said the rooster.
“Is it? Remember the time you got so mad at a truck driver for calling you a chicken that you’d have let him run over you before you’d get out of the road?”
“Pooh, it isn’t the same thing at all!” said Charles.
“All right. You wait and see.—Hey, there go the lights again. Hear ’em banging around! They’re getting pretty mad already.”
There had been several thumps and a crash in Mr. Anderson’s room, followed by a lot of bad language. At least it sounded like the worst kind of language, though they couldn’t hear the words. Then things quieted down, but the lights were left on.
Of course crickets are annoyed by sudden light, and prefer to sing in the dark, but these crickets had their orders, and after a minute, realizing that the lights weren’t going to be put out again, the full chorus started up again.
“I can’t stand this,” said Georgie. “I guess I’ve got a sympathetic nature. I keep thinking what it’s like for that poor man in there until I’m just about as nervous as he is. I’m going back to camp.”
“I suppose we might as well all go back and get some sleep,” said Freddy. “Webb will keep things rolling until daylight, and Homer and the mice will be there.”
“Well, my nature’s not sympathetic,” Jinx said, “and I wouldn’t miss this for eight pounds
of prime catnip. If the guy goes crazy I want to be here to see. Go on. I’ll keep an eye on things.”
Miss Minerva and Mr. Camphor were rolled up in their sleeping bags, and the fire had burned down. Mr. Camphor wasn’t snoring. “Thoughtful of his aunt, even in his sleep,” Freddy said to himself. He crawled into his lean-to and was asleep also in two minutes.
When he awoke it was broad daylight, and the Camphors were getting breakfast. Jinx strolled up as Freddy came out from his plunge in the lake. “Boy, did you miss a show!” he said. “Those crickets sure can keep up the chatter—they ought to be in Congress. Old Anderson never slept a wink, and finally, about an hour before daylight, he really cut loose. He yelled and smashed things—I bet there isn’t a whole stick of furniture left in that room.”
“How about the Joneses?”
“They quit about three. Piled in their car, after a yelling match with the boss. Boy, has that Mrs. Jones got a rough tongue—she filed Anderson down to about three inches high. Finally he said he’d get some DDT and spray the place in the morning, but they said he could put it in the bathtub and drown himself in it if he wanted to—they were through. And off they went.”
“DDT!” said Freddy. “I don’t like that. Spiders don’t mind it, but I don’t know about crickets. We’ll have to give that a little thought.”
“I’ve arranged to get hourly reports of what goes on from the mice,” Jinx said. “One of them, or Homer, will meet one of us every hour on the hour, under that big beech at the edge of the hotel lawn. Right now Brother Anderson is making up a little of his lost sleep. On a settee in the lounge.”
Freddy Goes Camping Page 12