Freddy had written the editorial, and at the same time, he had had Mr. Dimsey print a poster. It was the kind of poster usually printed up in Centerboro to announce an auction or a dance or a bake sale, but only one copy was printed. And the day after Mr. Garble was shown the Guardian extra, Freddy had it under his arm when he made his daily call on him.
Mr. Garble was by this time pretty discouraged. At first, he had shouted and raved, begged and threatened. But the Indians paid no more attention than if he was a piece of furniture. The wasps did, though. If he looked out of the window, a wasp flew down from the ceiling and lit on the back of his neck. If he laid a hand on the doorknob, a wasp dropped to his wrist. The first night, he got up some time after midnight and crept to the window. With a penknife, he was starting to pry at the sash when he thought a thorn had been driven into the lobe of his ear, and a tiny voice said: “Back to the feathers, brother, if you don’t want your ears pinned back. We’ve got the pins all ready.”
When Freddy came in with the poster under his arm, Garble started to demand to be released, but suddenly he stopped and pointed to the poster. “What’s that? It has my name on it!”
Freddy held it out. It read:
“GRAND WAR DANCE AND SCALPING PARTY OTESARAGA VILLAGE, JULY 18TH 3 P.M.
Following war dance, Mr. Herbert Garble, now Public Enemy No. 1, who was captured last Friday, will be
BURNED AT THE STAKE.
(stake and firewood furnished by Gilman Lumber Co.)
Admission 50¢, children half price.
Supper will be served after the entertainment by the ladies of the First Presbyterian Church of Centerboro.”
“Ha, ha!” said Mr. Garble uncertainly. “You have a great sense of humor, pig.”
Freddy said: “I’m glad you can see it that way. I admit that I can’t feel that you’ll really get much fun out of it. Old Wiggling Snake-he’s the chief—is very keen for it. The Indians don’t make much money out of their baskets and stuff, and we’re going to have a big crowd. Going to get posters up in Centerboro, Tushville, Nineveh Falls—every village within forty miles, as well as Rome, Utica, and Syracuse.”
“Look here, Freddy,” said Mr. Garble. “You’re not—you can’t really be serious about this business? You going to have me burned in effigy or something?”
“Oh dear me, no. No, no; you couldn’t get any kind of a crowd out for that. I’m sorry, you know, in a way. If you’d only behaved yourself and not turned into a human rat, it wouldn’t be necessary. But at least you’ll be doing some good to somebody for a change. The Indians should take in nearly a thousand dollars. And they’ll have some fun, too.”
Mr. Garble jumped out of his chair so agitatedly that the two wasps on guard flew down to his neck and stood there waiting with poised stings. “But Freddy,” he stammered, “you—you … Oh no, I don’t believe you. The police wouldn’t let you do a thing like that.”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Garble,” Freddy said. “You’re an outlaw. There’s a reward of a thousand dollars for your capture. But if you’re burned at the stake, the town won’t have to pay the reward. You don’t suppose they’re going to be mad at the Indians for saving them all that money, do you?”
“Bu—but you can’t—you simply can’t do such a thing to me,” the man gabbled. “Oh dear, how did I ever get into this thing anyway? Look, Freddy; you can get me out of it. What can I do to get out of it? Tell me; I’ll do anything. Burned at the stake! Ugh!” He shuddered.
“I don’t know that I can do anything,” Freddy said thoughtfully. “To withdraw the plans for the entertainment now—well, I don’t like to disappoint the Indians. And what will you do for me in exchange, if I do manage it?”
As they had talked, Mr. Garble’s eyes kept turning to the poster, and each time he read “burned at the stake,” he shuddered. By now he was in a cold sweat, and Freddy decided that he had got him where he wanted him. Maybe he didn’t quite believe that he would be burned, but he wasn’t eager to take the chance.
“I might,” Freddy said, “I just barely might get you out of it if you did just as I told you.”
“I’ll do anything, Freddy—anything.” Mr. Garble’s teeth were chattering now. “Only, get me out of this. Burned at the stake!” he whispered. And then he fell on his knees. “Don’t let ’em do it, Freddy; don’t let ’em!”
“Get up!” said Freddy shortly. “And sit quiet till I get back. I’m going to see what we can do.”
Half an hour later, he was back with pencil and paper. “I want you to write a note I’m going to take to Simon,” he said. “Now I know that he’ll suspect it, and I suppose you’ve got some secret password so that he’ll know if it is O.K. Right?”
“Yes, we have a password.”
“Good,” said Freddy. “Then see that you get it in. Because if he suspects, and doesn’t do what you tell him to—look, they’re putting up the stake now!” And he pointed to the window, through which they could see two Indians digging a hole in the open space which was surrounded by the houses of the village. A post about eight feet long was lying beside the hole.
Mr. Garble wrote as Freddy dictated, making at the end a secret mark under his signature.
Back at the farm, Simon had not for long been satisfied with the loft over the stable as a headquarters and audience room. Guarded by two huge wolves, he had demanded and obtained the use of the front parlor in the house. Here, seated in a handsome red plush chair, directly under the picture of Washington Crossing the Delaware, he received Jinx and Freddy later the same day.
They stood in front of him and Jinx raised his paw. “Hail, our Leader!” he said. “I have brought another volunteer who wishes to join us.”
They stood in front of Simon and Jinx raised his paw.
Simon grinned. “Dear, dear,” he said. “And who is this stout gentleman? A new recruit, I think you said? He will indeed be a weighty addition to our forces. That is, if we can afford to feed him. Eh, boys?” He snickered, and the two wolves laughed obediently.
“You know me, Simon,” Freddy said. “And I know you. I don’t like you any better than I ever did, but I am an animal, and if it comes to a showdown between animals and humans, I am on the animals’ side. Also, I think you have the winning team, and I like to be on the winning side, myself.”
“Very shrewd of you,” said the rat. “And you expect, I suppose, to be rewarded for these bluff and straightforward sentiments by a position of high trust in the new government. Tut, tut, my dear friend; old Simon is a silly old fellow and has a trusting nature, but do you know —he is not inclined to believe you. And what do you think of that?”
“I think you’re missing a bet. I’ve got some influence among the animals around here. If I throw it your way, it’s going to save you a lot of trouble.”
Simon’s beady black eyes shifted from Freddy to Jinx and back again. “And how about the good Beans? Do you agree with Jinx that they have had their own way on this farm long enough?”
“I don’t want them to come to harm,” Freddy replied. “But it is time for a change. Jinx will run the farm as well as Mr. Bean did, and I am sure he will be as thoughtful for his old masters as they were for him.”
Rats are not loyal, and do not understand loyalty. That Freddy should stay loyal to Mr. Bean, when it was to his advantage to go over to the other side, was something that Simon found it difficult to believe. And so he was not hard to convince that Freddy would betray old friends for a more comfortable position.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll take you on as assistant to Jinx. But no tricks! Poor old Simon may be easy to fool, but remember that these boys will be keeping an eye on you. Eh, boys?” he said to the wolves, who showed their teeth in what may have been meant as a smile, but made Freddy feel very plump and pink and edible.
Jinx again raised his right paw. “Our Leader, hail!” he said. “I am the bearer of a letter to you from Honorable Garble.” And he produced the letter that Freddy had dictated.
Simon opened and read it. “Ha,” he said; “so he has escaped from the Indians! And you and Freddy assisted him? Excellent. You have our thanks.” And he bowed slightly and looked more kindly at Freddy.
Then he referred again to the letter. “He wishes us to meet him at the Camphor house tomorrow afternoon. He feels—and I cannot but agree with him—that this parlor is not sufficiently magnificent for the Leader of a great animal republic. He wishes us to take over the Camphor mansion as our executive palace. The drawing room, if I remember it correctly, would be suitable for a—dear me, I suppose we should call it a throne room. He says that he will have it prepared for us.
“Not, you understand,” he added hastily, “that old Simon cares for such pomp and splendor. But we must remember the effect on our subjects, eh? Yes, I think this idea of Mr. Garble’s is excellent.”
“Splendid, my Leader,” Jinx exclaimed, and Freddy and he both saluted. “Highly fitting, your Magnificence,” the pig added.
“Tut, tut,” said Simon, “no flattery, if you please. Grand titles are not for simple old Simon. Simon is your leader, true, but he is also just a plain citizen.” But Freddy could see that he was pleased. And he thought: We’ve got him; we’ve got him through his vanity. “As your Excellency pleases,” he said, and backed, bowing, to the door. And Jinx, taking the hint, backed, bowing, beside him.
CHAPTER
13
The country around Centerboro, and indeed through much of the state, was in a bad way. Up in the Indian village, Freddy had not actually realized how far the revolution had gone. But when they started for Centerboro in Wiggling Snake’s car, he became pretty frightened.
They saw several abandoned cars, and by them, the shoulders of the pavement and the ditches were cut up by the hoofs of animals. Farther on, they came round a curve and a flock of sheep jammed the space between the fences. Beyond the sheep, a small truck stood in the middle of the road. Some of the sheep faced around and glared menacingly at Mr. Camphor and Bannister. Bannister muttered: “I wish we didn’t have those lamb chops in the freezer, sir.”
But Jinx hopped out, and the sheep made way for him. A man stuck his head out of the truck and shouted: “Hey, what’s the matter with these critters? They been trying to climb in here and bite me.”
“Better turn around and go back,” said Jinx.
The man started to say something else, and then he said: “Holy smoke, look at that!” And pointed across the fields.
A man was standing on a rock in the middle of a hayfield and laying about him with a hoe. Around him, the grass kept moving, and now and then small brownish animals came into sight as they leaped up towards him.
“Rabbits, by cramps!” yelled the man in the truck. He jammed on the accelerator and, knocking aside one or two sheep, backed around and roared off down the road.
At one place, a mob of cows was shoving stones and dirt and fence rails on to the pavement to make a road block, and they had to detour through the fields. And then they came to a farm owned by a man named Coombs. A big herd of cows was milling about the house, and several of them, led by a huge bull, were trying to break down the back door. They were butting it and pounding it with their hoofs. And then around the corner of the house came a collie. He didn’t waste any time barking. He went for those cows, driving them, nipping at their legs, dodging when they tried to hook him. In a few minutes, he had them herded and headed for the barn. The bull faced him for a moment, bellowing and pawing the ground, but the dog gave two or three sharp barks and the bull suddenly turned tail and ran for the barn.
“Good gracious,” said Freddy, “did you see that? Those cows were actually scared to death of that dog. If they’d ganged up on him, they could have hooked and trampled him and driven him off.”
“They’ve been trained for generations to run from dogs,” said Wiggling Snake. “Even though they know they’re stronger, they’re afraid.”
“I wonder how many of the dogs are loyal,” said Freddy thoughtfully.
“Most of them,” said the Indian. “They’ve been trained in the same way.”
“Golly,” Freddy said, “that gives me an idea. I believe I know how we can break this revolution. We’ve got Garble. Now if we can capture Simon, all these cows are our chief problem, and I know how to lick that.”
“How about the wolves?” Mr. Camphor asked. Still in his war paint, he looked more like an Indian than the Indians themselves.
Freddy said: “The chief tells me that if we can get rid of the leaders of the revolt, it will be easy to drive the wolves back where they came from.”
“That’s right,” Wiggling Snake said. “Wolves are cowards. Even a pack of a dozen will run from a man with a gun. You leave the wolves to us. You know, summer people will pay good prices for wolf skins.”
“People have been brought up on stories about the big bad wolf,” said Running Deer, “but actually the big bad wolf is a sneaking henhouse robber. Simon knows that; he’s got the wolves for window dressing. Strictly for shudders.”
In Centerboro, Freddy bought some pieces of heavy wire mesh at the hardware store, and then got a friend of his, a Mr. Smith, a plumber, to bring certain equipment out to Mr. Camphor’s. There, Mr. Smith welded the wire mesh into a sort of cage that fitted under the seat and between the legs of the armchair that stood at the head of Mr. Camphor’s dining-room table. The lid of the cage opened inward, like the leaves of a double door when you pulled a string.
They cut out the bottom of the armchair so that anyone sitting in it sat directly on the lid of the cage, and then they took it into the big drawing room and draped it like a throne, with a red plush curtain. In the meantime, Mr. Camphor had gone up into the attic and found some gold paper, which he cut into the shape of a crown.
The preparations were only barely ready when one of the wasps left on guard at the gate came and reported that Simon and Ezra, with two wolves, were just coming in the gate.
Besides the committee and Miss Anguish, there were half a dozen refugee farmers in the house. Freddy seated them in chairs around the other end of the room, and warned them to be as quiet as possible. There was silence for several minutes, then the door opened and Jinx entered, followed by two huge wolves, and then by Simon and his eldest son, Ezra. Jinx walked backward, bowing at every other step. When he reached the throne, he stood aside and motioned towards it.
“Will your Excellency,” he said solemnly, “deign to be seated?”
Simon paused. He looked round—at the solemn farmers, at the puzzled committee, at the Indians who filed in and closed the door behind them.
“Who are these people?” he demanded, indicating the latter.
“Your very loyal subjects, your Excellency,” said Jinx. “They only wish to ask to be allowed to live in peace in the forest, as they always have.”
“We will take up their case later,” said Simon. “Is Mr. Garble here?”
“Mr. Garble seems to have been delayed,” said the cat. “We expect him any minute. In the meantime may we proceed, your Excellency, to the little ceremony which we have prepared? Freddy—”
Freddy stepped forward. He was carrying the gold paper crown. “Your Eminence—” he began.
But Simon brushed the crown aside with a snarl. “What are you trying to do—make a monkey of me?” he demanded. Then remembering that he was after all a dictator over a great number of subjects, he said: “You forget, I think, that although I am your leader, I am still a plain citizen, and I like plain titles. All this pomp and ceremony—”
“Forgive me, Excellency,” said Freddy, “but in ruling a nation, pomp and ceremony are necessary. The ruler of an empire is not, and cannot be, a plain citizen. He must submit to being placed on a pedestal, to being seated on a throne. Only thus can he receive the proper respect, the honor which his followers delight to give him.” And stepping forward quickly, he pressed the gold paper crown firmly down on Simon’s head.
The rat sensed that Freddy was mak
ing fun of him, but all the bowing and scraping and flattery had tickled his vanity, and in spite of himself, he was very pleased. And then Freddy whispered to him. “You’ve got to put on the dog,” murmured the pig. “Your subjects want a king to act like a king. Come on; here’s a chance to make an impression. Make a speech. Pass a couple of laws.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said the rat, and Freddy could see that he was anxious to be convinced. Then he got up into the chair, trying to look as kingly and ferocious as he could. “Friends and loyal subjects,” he began—and then Freddy pulled the string, there was a click, and with an alarmed squeak, Simon vanished.
For a minute, there was complete silence in the room.
“Dear me,” said Miss Anguish, “what an amusing trick!”
Then as an angry chattering broke out under the folds of curtain beneath the chair, the two wolves made a dive for Freddy. But the pig stood his ground. “Take it easy, boys,” he said, and pointed towards the door. Two of the Indians had slipped out and now popped back in again, holding guns. At the sight of firearms, the wolves dashed for the window and leaped through, taking the screen with them. Ezra scrambled after them. And Freddy went up to the chair and pulled off the red curtain, revealing Simon, imprisoned in the small cage.
Simon was practically foaming with rage, but Freddy paid no attention to his remarks. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the pig, “let me present to you that noble figure, that magnificent conqueror, Simon the Dictator. Come on, Simon, speak to the gentlemen, and stop that silly chattering. Let us hear and tremble at your imperial squeak.”
Simon controlled himself with difficulty. “I don’t know what good you think this is going to do you,” he snarled. “Let me out of here or you’ll regret it, pig.”
“Sorry, old boy,” Freddy replied. “I guess you’ll just have to stay there till your revolution goes pop. Bannister, will you get a chair to stand on and hang that cage up on the chandelier?” So the butler stood on a chair and hung the cage on the chandelier.
Freddy and Simon the Dictator Page 9