Freddy the Magician

by Walter R. Brooks

  Zingo had become wary, and would perhaps have refused, but he realized that in the present mood of the audience a refusal would mean the end of his career as a magician. If he backed down before an amateur magician, and a pig at that, nobody would ever hire him again. He laughed shortly. “I accept,” he said; “and if that pig can put on a mind-reading performance, I’ll eat my hat.” And he sent Presto out to the box office for the money.

  Freddy, although he was really wealthy for a pig, had no such sum in his pockets. He went down the runway into the aisle and said: “Will anyone here lend me a hundred dollars for half an hour?” Zingo sniggered, but then he gasped, for almost at once handfuls of bills were reached towards Freddy from all directions.

  Freddy was pretty pleased at such a response, but as he hesitated which handful to take, Mr. Bean got up from his seat in the front row and came out into the aisle. “You’re my pig,” he said gruffly. “You take my money, and nobody else’s.” And after digging down in a pocket which from the trouble he had must have been about two feet deep, he pulled out a huge roll of bills, peeled off five twenties, and stuffed them into Freddy’s pocket.

  Then Mr. Weezer held the stakes and the mind-reading contest began.

  Chapter 18

  Signor Zingo had a very good mind-reading performance of the standard kind. He sat on the stage with the lights on in the house, and Presto went up and down the aisles, taking objects that people handed to him and asking the magician to describe them. He would take, for instance, a watch, and standing with his back to the stage would ask Zingo questions about it.

  “What is this?”

  “A watch.”

  “What is it made of?”

  “Gold.”

  And so on, until Zingo had described it as a lady’s wrist watch, with the monogram J. A. on the back, whose hands pointed to nine-thirty, and whose crystal was cracked.

  At first Freddy couldn’t figure out what kind of a code Presto was using to communicate with Zingo. For all mind-reading teams use a code of some kind or other. The one who goes through the audience may signal by the way he holds his hands, or by holding his head up or down or to one side or the other; or he may use a code in which the words he uses stand for different things, or qualities of things. Many of these codes are very long and complicated, and sometimes several codes may be combined, so that even though you know a code is being used, it is impossible to tell what it is.

  Presto was clowning a good deal as he passed through the audience. He danced around a lot and his ears were in constant motion, but his questions were always about the same, so Freddy didn’t think that they concealed any code. But the ears! It came to Freddy suddenly that the rabbit was really using his ears as signal flags, wigwagging information about the various objects to Zingo.

  Freddy didn’t interrupt Zingo’s performance, but when it was over, he came forward. He could explain, he said, how this mind reading had been done. But as he had told them the week before, no reputable magician will ever publicly explain another magician’s tricks. “However,” he said, “I don’t need to explain. In order to win the hundred dollars, I have merely to give you a better mind-reading performance. Which I shall now proceed to do.”

  He took a large cone made of black paper, and after turning it this way and that, to show that it was quite empty, put it on his head. “This,” he said, “is my mind-reading cap.” Then he sat down in a chair, with his eyes blindfolded, and Jinx and Minx went down the aisles, each in turn picking out an article for him to describe. They said nothing except: “I have an article, Professor Frederico,” and then Freddy would tell them all about it, even giving the addresses and postmark dates on letters, and reading sentences that people had written on cards.

  It was a pretty impressive exhibition. Since he could not see the cats, it was evident that they were not signalling to him; and as they never spoke except in the same form of words, even Zingo could not discover that any verbal code was being used.

  Now the way Freddy worked it was this: he had clipped off the tip of the paper cone so that there was a hole large enough to admit a wasp. Jacob and Eph and Fritz cruised about above the heads of the audience with their wings just idling so that they wouldn’t make the angry buzz that wasps’ wings make when they’re really out on business. If anyone saw them, they just thought they were moths that had flown in, attracted by the light. When one of the cats picked out an article, one of the wasps would glide down and light on his shoulder, and then, having got full information, would fly back in a roundabout way and light on the tip of the cone, and shout his information down the hole. For the cap was really a megaphone, which made the sound of the wasp’s voice loud enough so Freddy could hear it.

  The cap was really a megaphone.

  All in all, Freddy described some twenty articles; then he took off the blindfold and the cap, and said: “Now, ladies and gentlemen, to whom do you award the money?” And the audience shouted: “Freddy! Freddy wins!”

  Zingo made several objections; he said there were earphones in the caps; he tried to prove in various ways that Freddy had cheated. But the audience had made up its mind, and Mr. Weezer paid the money over.

  So Freddy came forward, and he thanked everybody, and he said: “My friends, I have now got back all but ten dollars of the money Signor Zingo took from me last week. But I’ve had a good deal more than ten dollars’ worth of fun here tonight, and I will now turn the rest of the program over to Signor Zingo. I know that he has a great many more interesting tricks up his sleeve, and I hope you will stay and enjoy them.” And bowing right and left as the audience rose in their seats to applaud him, he walked down the aisle and left the theatre.

  Leo and Mr. Boomschmidt and Bill Wonks joined Freddy outside the theatre, and they went into Dixon’s Diner and had a sandwich together. Leo took off the long shawl that he had disguised himself with so that Zingo wouldn’t recognize him, and Freddy took off his war bonnet and his magician’s coat, and Mr. Boomschmidt took off his plug hat, and Bill loosened his necktie, and they sat in their booth and ate and chatted comfortably. Mr. Boomschmidt was enthusiastic about Freddy’s performance. “My goodness,” he said, “you’re three times the magician Zing is—I don’t know but four times, eh, Leo?”

  “You work it out, chief,” said the lion. “I was never any good at figures.”

  “It certainly did my heart good,” Mr. Boomschmidt said, “the way you clipped his whiskers tonight. The things I’ve put up with from him—caused me more trouble!—and then stole all the petty cash. But I guess it was worth a thousand dollars to get rid of him.”

  “I felt sort of sorry for him, though,” Freddy said. “Oh, I know he’s a crook, but he’s really a good magician, and proud of it, I suppose; and when everything went wrong in front of all those people …”

  Leo let out a roar. “Well, file my claws!” he said. “You going soft on us, pig? Sorry because he got back what he stole off you? I guess you been writing too much poetry lately.”

  “Leo’s right,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “Zing’s a crook—a real bad man, Freddy. He deserves a lot worse than you gave him. And my goodness, you watch out for him. I’d just as soon have a tiger mad at me as Zing—sooner, I guess, considering what nice folks tigers usually are.”

  A shadow fell across the table and they looked up to see Mr. Groper looming over them. “Hail and good evening,” said the hotelkeeper gloomily. “I saw that prestidigitative extravaganza of yours this evening,” he said to Freddy. “Very masterfully excogitated and performed. I guess your fiscal deficit is about expunged.”

  “Just about,” said Freddy after a glance into his dictionary. “Look, Mr. Groper; I suppose you’re mad at me, and I guess you have a right to be. I haven’t done very much about getting rid of Signor Zingo for you. But I’m going to. Somehow or other, I’ll get him out of your hotel.”

  “I ain’t mad,” said Mr. Groper. “Just, as you might say, kind of reduced to the nadir of pessimistic hypochondriasis.�
��

  “Good gracious,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, “what lovely words! Leo, write those down, will you? Can’t you see them on a billboard? On your billboard, Leo; my goodness, they’re just what we need to pep up the description of you. Great Bald African Lion—that’s kind of weak. Lots of people wouldn’t cross the street nowadays to see a lion, no matter how bald. But the ‘Great Bald African Nadir,’ and underneath, ‘the ferocious Pessimisticus Hypochondriasis, terror of the jungle,’—”

  “The nadir’s a kind of antelope, isn’t he chief?” Leo said.

  “The nadir,” put in Mr. Groper, “is the ultimate and nethermost profundity of the abyss.”

  “There, what did I tell you, Leo?” said Mr. Boomschmidt.

  “Intellectually speaking,” Mr. Groper added.

  “See?” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “You’re a lot more intellectual than most lions.”

  “Look, chief—you leave me out of this,” said Leo. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Groper to sit down and have a cup of coffee?”

  Mr. Groper used the complete resources of his mental dictionary to thank them and inform them that he couldn’t stay; and after he had shaken hands all around to show there was no hard feeling, he left.

  Freddy had been feeling pretty good, but the sight of Mr. Groper made him feel guilty. He had promised Mr. Groper his help, but tonight he had been fighting his own battle, not the hotelkeeper’s. And what was worse, he couldn’t think of any way of getting Zingo to leave the hotel. “I suppose,” he said, “I’ll have to go see Old Whibley again.”

  His friends agreed that that was the best thing to do, and they all got into the big red car and drove out to the Bean farm. While the others went in to have a piece of cake and another cup of coffee with the Beans, Freddy trotted up towards the woods.

  He was just above the duck pond when a big silent shape drifted across in front of him, and Whibley’s voice said: “Good show tonight. Congratulate you.”

  The owl was gone before Freddy could answer. “Whibley!” he shouted. “Please, Whibley; I want to talk to you!”

  Whibley didn’t reply; evidently he had gone home. But as Freddy started on he saw two small white shapes approaching through the darkness, and a subdued but excitable quacking told him that it was the two ducks, Alice and Emma, returning from the show.

  They had caught sight of him. “Oh, Freddy, such a delightful evening!” said Alice. “You and that Mr. Zingo make a wonderful team!”

  “Such a clever idea,” said Emma; “each pretending to do better tricks than the other! Are you going into partnership with him? I do think you’d make your fortunes!”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Freddy said. “That wasn’t pretending.” And he quickly explained the situation to them.

  “Dear me, we had no idea!” said Alice. “What an unpleasant character he is, to be sure!” And Emma said: “How silly we were, sister! Of course—he’s the horrid man that broke into our bank!”

  Old Whibley’s voice floated down to them from a tree that overhung the pond. “You want to see me, pig, or are you going to stand there talking all night? If so, I’m going home.”

  “Oh, I called you and you didn’t answer, and I thought you’d gone,” said Freddy.

  “Would have gone,” said the owl. “Only I knew you’d probably come and kick my door down. What do you want to know this time—how much two times two is? That’s about as important as your questions usually are.”

  “I want to know how to get Zingo to leave the hotel,” Freddy said. “He’s ruining Mr. Groper’s business. Whenever Mr. Groper asks him to pay his bill, he pretends to find a caterpillar or a beetle on his plate, and threatens to tell everybody about it. Of course if it got around that the hotel was careless about the food, nobody would eat there any more. So Mr. Groper is scared, and lets Zingo live there free.”

  “Why doesn’t Mr. Groper really put caterpillars on Mr. Zingo’s plate?” Emma asked. “Then he wouldn’t want to eat there any more.”

  “Upon my word!” Old Whibley exclaimed. “Out of the mouths of babes and ducklings! You’ve got the root of the matter, Emma. But why,” he asked curiously, “do you think that would work?”

  “Why, dear me, it stands to reason doesn’t it?” said the duck. “If Mr. Zingo wanted to make people stop eating there, he would say to himself: ‘What would make me stop eating there?’”

  Whibley said emphatically: “Right! There’s your answer, pig.”

  “Is it?” said Freddy. “I don’t see it. Zingo’d know it was just the same trick he’d played on Groper. He’s just laugh.”

  “He might laugh but he wouldn’t eat anything,” Alice said.

  Whibley clattered his beak irritably. “Preserve me from dumb pigs!” he said. “Zingo wants to make folks shudder. So he picks out caterpillars. Why? Because they make him shudder. Q.E.D., and goodnight,” he said, and flew off.

  “I’m afraid we must go in, Freddy,” said Emma. “This night air—dear me, I just can’t get used to this modern idea that night air is harmless. Why look at Uncle Wesley! He never opens his window at night, even in summer, and you know how robust he is! Goodnight, Freddy, and thanks for a lovely evening.”

  Freddy trotted back to the barnyard.

  Chapter 19

  At three the next afternoon, when the hotel diningroom was empty, Mr. Groper unlocked the door and admitted Freddy and Jinx. They carried a little wooden box and a hammer and nails, and they went to work on the table that was reserved for Zingo.

  Mr. Groper sat and watched them gloomily. “Pity I ain’t been indoctrinated with imperishable optimism,” he said. “This here enterprise involves an unjustifiably prodigal expense, both temporal and operose.”

  “Ain’t it the truth?” said Jinx. “Through, Freddy? Well, come on.”

  That evening at dinnertime, when Zingo came into the dining room, he gave a start, stopped short for a minute, then went on to his table. For seated at Mr. Groper’s table were Freddy—in war bonnet and Indian suit again—and the sheriff. The butt of a pistol stuck out of the sheriff’s pocket. Of course it was just a butt, which was sewn into the pocket without any pistol attached to it. But Zingo didn’t know that.

  Freddy had asked the sheriff to have dinner with him in order to have protection in case Zingo attacked him. He had worn the Indian clothes so as not to disturb the hotel guests, some of whom, being from out of town, might be startled to see a pig dining at the next table. But he didn’t try to hide now, and he sat facing the magician.

  Zingo must have known that something was afoot, but he gave no sign. He ordered, and when his soup was brought, dipped his spoon in the plate—and then shoved his chair back with an “Arrrrrh!” of distaste. Then he beckoned to Mr. Groper.

  The hotelkeeper, followed by Freddy and the sheriff, went over to his table.

  “Look here, Groper,” he exclaimed; “what do you call this?” And he pointed to a fuzzy brown caterpillar which was crawling towards the edge of the table.

  The three peered at it.

  “Inexistent and non-dimensional,” said Mr. Groper.

  “There’s nothing there,” said Freddy.

  “What do you call it, mister?” asked the sheriff.

  “What do I call it!” shouted the magician. “A great nasty caterpillar, that’s what I call it, Groper! And I demand …!”

  “Shut up!” the sheriff snapped. As the caterpillar crawled off over the edge of the table he turned to the other diners. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Signor Zingo has been claiming for a long time that he has found caterpillars and other varmints on the plates of food that are brought in to him from the kitchen. He’s made these claims and tried to give the hotel a bad name. Now he’s tried it again. I call you gentlemen to witness—there’s nothing here. Will some of you step over here and look?”

  Two or three men got up and came over. They looked on top and under the table, and on the floor where Zingo claimed the caterpillar must have dropped, but found nothing.

  “Bu
t I saw it!” Zingo insisted. “It was right there!”

  “When folks see things that ain’t there,” said one of the men significantly, “they get taken off to the hospital in a little wagon.”

  “Guess he’s got caterpillars inside his head,” said another, and they went back to their tables.

  But five minutes later the same thing happened. This time it was a beetle. And the third time it was another beetle, and the other diners began to get annoyed.

  “Look here, Mister,” said one, “if you want to watch bugs, go outdoors and let us eat in peace.”

  The fourth time it was another caterpillar, and Zingo left the room without finishing his meal.

  Now of course this was what Freddy had done: he had fastened the little wooden box to the under side of Zingo’s table, in the corner by one leg where nobody would notice it even if they got underneath. Inside the box were the caterpillars and beetles whom the mice had found in Zingo’s room, and who had offered Freddy their help. Volunteered for foreign service, as Jinx said. Freddy had given them their instructions, and as soon as Zingo was seated at the table one would crawl out, across the table, then down into the box again. Every five minutes this was to go on as long as Zingo was in the dining room.

  It was a dangerous service they had volunteered for. But Freddy had posted Jacob in the dining room with instructions to divert Zingo’s attention if he attacked or attempted to sqush one of the volunteers. Fortunately the magician was too horrified and disgusted by the bugs to want to sqush them.

  At breakfast and at lunch the next day the performance was repeated. By this time Zingo was hungry. He went over to Dixon’s Diner, but Mr. Dixon had heard about how he was abusing Mr. Groper’s hospitality and made him pay in advance for everything he ate. When he had finished, Mr. Dixon said: “Don’t come in here again, mister.” Mr. Dixon had a butcher knife in his hand so Zingo didn’t ask him what he meant.