Freddy and Simon the Dictator

by Walter R. Brooks

  “Now, are there any questions?”

  For a moment there was silence. Then the small voice which had spoken before—it was a rabbit’s, and Freddy thought it was 12’s—said: “Why don’t you tell us who you are?”

  “Who I am,” was the reply, “will be revealed in due course. This, I will tell you: I am not a human.”

  “You a bug?” the little voice asked.

  There were a few faint snickers, but it is a measure of the seriousness with which the listeners took the speaker that there was no laughter. This, as much as anything that had been said, worried Freddy. If the farm animals were taking this creature, whoever he was, seriously, there was big trouble ahead.

  Freddy decided that he had learned all he needed to, and he thought he had better leave before the meeting broke up. He backed out of the bush where he had taken cover and sneaked off down through the woods.

  When he got to the pig pen, Freddy didn’t go straight to bed. He didn’t even take off the derby and the morning coat, but sat down in his big chair and put his feet up on the desk beside the old typewriter on which he composed his poems and prepared the copy for his weekly animal newspaper, the Bean Home News. He wanted to think.

  He was still thinking, to the accompaniment of good hearty snores, an hour later when Jinx tapped at the door, then pushed it open, and came in. Seeing his friend asleep, the cat grinned, tiptoed up close to him, and suddenly screeched: “Arise, pig! Cast off your chains! The revolution has dawned! The animals have taken over!”

  “Arise, pig!”

  Freddy arose all right. He went right up out of the chair as if he were on springs, and before his eyes were open, grabbed a stick from the corner, dashed to the door, and throwing it open, assumed an attitude of defense. Then his eyes opened and he began to relax. “Dawn?” he muttered. “ ’Tisn’t dawn yet. Black as your hat out.”

  He stood there for a second or two, then turned and saw Jinx. “Darn you, cat,” he said crossly, “I wish you’d quit these silly jokes.” He picked up the derby, which had fallen to the floor, and brushed the dust off it tenderly. “I was just thinking—” he began.

  “Boy, I’ll say you were—thinking on all twelve cylinders,” said Jinx. “Could hear you all the way down from the woods.”

  “Yeah,” Freddy said. “Very comical. But suppose you tell me what you saw.”

  “I didn’t see much,” said the cat seriously. “I know we’re supposed to see in the dark, and we can, better than most animals. But not in the pitch-black, the way it was there. Matter of fact, owls can see better in the dark than cats can.—Hey, how about that screech owl pal of yours, the one that swallowed the dictionary—Uncle Solomon? I bet he knows what’s going on.”

  “Probably Old Whibley does, too,” said Freddy. Whibley was a big owl who lived with his niece, Vera, in a tree not far from the Grimby house. “We’d better see him tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t see the speaker,” Jinx went on, “though I waited nearly an hour after they all left. Nobody came out of the cellar. There were some big animals in the audience, though. I saw a couple of horses, and at least one cow; and I gathered that there were some skunks there—I don’t know whether it was Sniffy Wilson and his family or not. Mostly, though, they were just small animals. Lots of rabbits.”

  “Well,” said Freddy, “my guess is that whoever’s behind all this doesn’t really hope to take over New York State for the animals, much less the whole country. Nobody would be so foolish as to propose that. But suppose he keeps up this talk about how cruel and mean Mr. Bean is—twisting things that happen like spanking the rabbits. First thing you know, he’ll have ’em believing that Mr. Bean is mean and cruel, and ought to have his farm taken away from him. And a bunch of animals could drive a farmer off. Remember how Mr. Anderson and the rats drove Mrs. Filmore away from her summer hotel?”

  “I wonder why he spoke of the rats,” said Jinx. “That didn’t go down very well.”

  Freddy said: “I don’t know. Thank goodness the rats are gone. There was only one, Eli, that didn’t get shipped off to Montana. Simon sent him on an errand and he didn’t get back till the rest had gone. But he’s living quietly in Tushville. I’ve seen him once or twice at the movies in Centerboro. He walks over. Has a private entrance somewhere under the stage, he told me, so he doesn’t have to pay admission.”

  “I don’t see how anybody could stir up trouble for Mr. Bean among the animals,” said the cat. “Witherspoon, yes; he’s stingy. They say he won’t even let his barn cat have table scraps.”

  “There aren’t any, that’s why,” said Freddy. “Not after he and his wife get through. You know his horse, Jerry, told me that often for dinner, he and his wife divide a fried egg, and then give the cat the shell to lick.

  “But as far as stirring up trouble for Mr. Bean, it wouldn’t be hard. By now, Mrs. 6 has peddled that recipe for stewed rabbit all over the farm, and ninety per cent of the rabbits believe that the Beans had old 6 for supper. Although all of ’em know that he ran away because he couldn’t stand his wife’s nagging, and wanted peace and quiet. Besides which, he’d have been tougher’n an old boot.”

  “We’ve got to stop this thing before it goes too far,” said Jinx. “Let’s get some of the old crowd together and bust up their next meeting, hey?”

  “And suppose some rabbit gets a black eye. Can’t you hear them all hollering cruelty again? No, this has to be handled carefully.” Freddy suddenly yawned uncontrollably. “All this thinking,” he said—“takes it out of me. Must get my rest or I’ll be no good in the morning.”

  “You sure aren’t much good tonight,” said Jinx. “Haven’t you any ideas at all?”

  Freddy took off the morning coat and hung it on a hanger. “What have I been passing out to you for the last hour?” he demanded. “You can’t recognize an idea when you see one. Look, cat; who are the enemies of the Bean farm? First there’s Herb Garble, and his sister, Mrs. Underdunk. Then there’s Mr. Anderson, the real estate man. And then Simon and his gang of rats. They’ve all tried, singly or working together, to get the farm away from the Beans. But I think Garble is the worst. He doesn’t just want the farm; he hates us; he’d like to burn us at the stake or boil us in oil or something. Anderson doesn’t hate us; he’d just like to do the Beans out of the farm. As for the rats—well, they’re just rats. Anyway, all but one of ’em are in Montana.”

  “You think Garble’s behind this, then,” said Jinx.

  “He’s the likeliest one. And remember, he owns the Big Woods—bought ’em from Mr. Margarine.” Freddy got a clean nightshirt out of a drawer and pulled it on over his head. “So even though that wasn’t Garble’s voice tonight, he’s the one we ought to check on first.” He pulled back the covers and got into bed. “Well, good-night, Jinx. Want to stay? Curl up in the armchair.”

  “With all those broken springs poking up into me? Thanks,” said the cat. “I’d rather curl up on a hot griddle. See you in the morning, pig.”

  But Freddy was already asleep.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Mr. J. J. Pomeroy was a robin, and the head of the A.B.I., the Animal Bureau of Investigation, which often worked with Freddy on his detective cases. The next morning, Freddy called on Mr. Pomeroy in his nest in the elm tree on the Bean’s front lawn. That is, he didn’t try to climb up to the nest; he tapped on the tree trunk, and Mr. Pomeroy flew down to him.

  After they had exchanged greetings and Freddy had inquired after the health of Mrs. Pomeroy and the children, he told Mr. Pomeroy about last night’s meeting.

  “Dear, dear,” said the robin, “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Neither do I,” Freddy said, “and I think you’d better put your whole force on it right away. I’d watch Garble and Anderson. We know they’re enemies of the Beans, and of the F.A.R.”

  “I’ll do it right away,” said Mr. Pomeroy. “I know there’s been something going on—some unrest, specially among the rabbits, but I couldn’t
put a claw on it. Only it certainly isn’t just the rabbits. I agree with you that there’s probably a man behind it. But we’ll—Hey!” he broke off. “Look who’s coming.”

  A long black car was turning through the gate. It stopped beside Freddy, and a short red-faced man with a bristly mustache leaned out of the window. “Hi, Freddy!”

  “Mr. Camphor!” Freddy exclaimed, and went over and shook hands.

  “Why so formal?” Mr. Camphor asked. “What’s the use of having a first name if your friends won’t use it?”

  “I’m sorry—er, Jimson,” said the pig. “May I present my friend, Mr. J. J. Pomeroy? He’s head of the A.B.I. Mr. C. Jimson Camphor, J.J.”

  The robin flew up into the window opening and extended a claw. “Very happy to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a good deal about you, of course.”

  “And you’re going to hear more, I’m afraid,” Mr. Camphor said. “You know what I’ve done, Freddy? I’ve let ’em persuade me to run for governor of the state.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful, Jimson,” said Freddy. “I’m sure you’ll make a good one.”

  “Cheer up,” said Mr. Camphor gloomily. “Maybe I won’t get elected. Goodness, I don’t know anything about governing. Oh, I’ve worked in Washington a lot, on committees investigating things. But when Senator Blunder and Judge Anguish and some of ’em came and asked me to run—well, all I could think of was that I’d be famous, and I said yes. So I got nominated on the Republican ticket. But then I got to thinking I didn’t know anything about being governor, and maybe my fame would be the wrong kind—you know what the newspapers would say: ‘Governor Camphor’s administration has been marked by the most abjectly stupid incompetency ever exhibited by an incumbent of the gubernatorial mansion.’ Stuff like that.”

  “Guber—what?” inquired Mr. Pomeroy.

  “It’s Latin for governor,” said Freddy. “Anybody can use words like that ought to get elected easy. That one word alone ought to be good for ten thousand votes. And ‘incumbent’—easily another five thousand.”

  “That’s the trouble,” Mr. Camphor said. “When I’m in front of an audience, I just can’t help using words like those. I could sound like a fine governor, if I didn’t have to do any governing. Freddy, you’ve just got to get me out of this. And you’ve had political experience. Electing that cow—your friend Mrs. Wiggins—as President of the First Animal Republic. Come up for a few days. The committee’s there now, planning the campaign. You can tell ’em confidentially that I’m a crook or something—not fit to sit in the governor’s chair.”

  Freddy shook his head. “They won’t listen to a pig.”

  “You won’t be a pig; you’ll be a local politician—Dr. Hopper. The same disguise you had when we had the trouble with Mr. Eha, remember? Sure, a doctor—you can tell ’em I’m crazy—not fit to govern. And that’s true enough, anyway.” Mr. Camphor frowned and was silent a moment. “There’s something else, too,” he said. “A detective job. Just came up last night, and—Well, I’ll tell you when you get there. I do need you, Freddy.”

  Even though he was needed badly at home, Freddy didn’t see how he could refuse. Mr. Camphor was a close friend, and had done him many favors. He gave Mr. Pomeroy certain instructions, and then went up to the pig pen, and put on the black clothes and the derby and the beard he had worn the previous evening. Then he glanced at himself in the mirror and frowned. He looked enough like a human to get by, if the lights weren’t too bright. He had found that people usually see what they expect to see. Introduced to Dr. Hopper, they’d see Dr. Hopper. He might look like a pig, but it wouldn’t occur to them that he really was one. But in the house he’d have to take the derby off and he couldn’t get by without a hat on.

  He didn’t like wigs. They always looked false. Beards nowadays, even real ones, looked false anyway, so the beard didn’t matter. He opened the wig drawer in his dresser and tried on several, finally selecting a very curly one that came well down over his forehead. Then with the scissors he trimmed the beard to a point, to look more professional.

  Finally he selected a very curly one that came well down over his forehead.

  “By George, Freddy,” said Mr. Camphor, as the pig got into the car, “you certainly do look distinguished. You’re the one ought to be running for governor—not me.” He thought a minute. “I wonder if we couldn’t arrange it. I wonder—”

  Freddy didn’t say anything. He didn’t know much about politics, but he thought it highly unlikely that even the most powerful political machine would dare to put a pig into such an important position. They drove down the Centerboro road, and after a mile or so, swung left into the road that led up to the south shore of Otesaraga Lake. A few miles farther, and the car turned through the tall iron gates of the Camphor estate.

  On the terrace in front of the big house, a group of distinguished-looking men were sitting in garden chairs. They were all smoking large cigars, and seemed to be having a lively argument.

  “Oh dear,” said Freddy. “Jimson, I—I don’t think I’ll be any good here. I can’t discuss high government affairs with these people.”

  Mr. Camphor laughed. “If you did, they wouldn’t know what you were talking about. You sit still and listen for a while; I guess you can get into the conversation all right. When I left, they were arguing about the best way to make fudge.” He took Freddy out on to the terrace and introduced him. “My friend, Dr. Hopper, gentlemen. Senator Blunder, Judge Anguish, Colonel Buglett, Mr. Slurp, Mr. Glockenspiel.” They shook hands. “Dr. Hopper is my chief political adviser,” Mr. Camphor said.

  “Never heard of him,” said Colonel Buglett shortly.

  Freddy scowled. He still felt out of place, and would have been happy to sink through the flagging of the terrace, if there had been a trap door handy. But he was angry at the rudeness offered to Mr. Camphor. He drew himself up. “Never heard of you, either,” he said.

  Colonel Buglett scowled too and started to his feet, but Judge Anguish put a hand on his arm. “Come, come, Percy,” he said; and then to Freddy: “I’m sure Colonel Buglett didn’t mean any discourtesy.”

  “No discourtesy,” said the Colonel. “Just meant I never heard of him.”

  Freddy and Mr. Camphor both opened their mouths to speak, but Senator Blunder stood up and raised his hand. “Gentlemen,” he said commandingly, “the party can never elect a governor if we are continually snapping at one another. I had never heard of Dr. Hopper either until Mr. Camphor spoke of him yesterday. But I have every confidence in Mr. Camphor’s judgment; if I had not, I would scarcely wish to have him as governor of our great state. Therefore, when Mr. Camphor tells us that Dr. Hopper is a truly great politician, I accept that statement as the truth.”

  Colonel Buglett still looked doubtful, but before he could say anything, Mr. Camphor said: “I should perhaps have given you a little more information about Dr. Hopper’s experience and background. Perhaps if I say that he was formerly adviser to President Wiggins, it will be enough. No one, I suppose, will care to question President Wiggins’ fame.”

  Apparently no one did, but Freddy could see all of their lips moving as they tried to place Wiggins in the long list of Presidents of the United States. He could actually read the lips of some of them. Colonel Buglett started at the present and worked backward. He got as far as Harding and stuck. Senator Blunder and Mr. Slurp worked from the other end. With their heads together, they were whispering: “Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison …” They got as far as Buchanan before they bogged down.

  Mr. Glockenspiel asked what Wiggins was doing now.

  “General Wiggins,” said Mr. Camphor. “Commander in Chief of the F.A.R.” He spoke as if he were shocked that Mr. Glockenspiel could be so ignorant.

  Freddy had a hard time keeping a straight face. Of course, his whiskers helped a lot. He wished Jinx was there, to hear all this. Actually, everything Mr. Camphor had said was the truth, but if these men had known that the Wiggins, whose name they were hearing with
such respect, was a cow … And the F.A.R., the First Animal Republic on the Bean farm … But, of course, there were so many government departments and labor unions and organizations of various kinds that were known only by their initials—like the C.I.O. and the N.A.M. and so on—that politicians couldn’t possibly keep track of them all. But they wouldn’t dare ask and thus expose their ignorance. Probably, they thought the F.A.R. was the Federal Army Reserve, or something like that.

  Whatever they may have thought, they didn’t seem to have any more doubts about Dr. Hopper. Mr. Camphor’s bluff had turned him into a very important person. Freddy decided that a little more bluffing wouldn’t do any harm. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I should perhaps tell you at once that General Wiggins and I had a long conference yesterday on the possibility of electing Mr. Camphor governor. And though this may come as a shock to some of you—and particularly to you, Jimson—the General will not support your candidacy.”

  Now if you are told that some piece of information will come as a shock to you, the chances are that you will really feel shocked, even if the information itself isn’t of the slightest importance. Senator Blunder said: “Good gracious me!” and Mr. Slurp threw up his hands. Even Colonel Buglett seemed put out. Mr. Camphor, however, did not make a success of his expression. It is hard to look disappointed with a broad grin on your face.

  Judge Anguish said: “This is very strange. What seems to be the General’s objection?”

  “Well, gentlemen—” Freddy hesitated. “This is confidential, you understand. The General would be very indignant if it leaked out to the newspapers. He does not question Mr. Camphor’s ability. But he feels—and I think perhaps, on due consideration, you will agree with him—that no governor should yawn continually through the speeches of members of his own party. Or on other public occasions. I regret to report this, Jimson, but you know yourself that during General Wiggins’ Fourth of July speech last year, you expressed boredom rather than enthusiasm.”