Freddy Plays Football (13 page)

Three or four of the prisoners came in and were introduced to Mrs. Church. “I'm very glad to meet you,” she said. “Are any of you burglars? I've always wanted to meet a burglar.”

The others pushed Red Mike forward, and he said bashfully: “I used to do a little in that line.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Mrs. Church asked.

“Well, yes and no, ma'am. It's a nice job some ways. You meet lots of people, but they're mostly asleep. Or else chasing you. I give it up finally and got a mail box.”

“A mail box?”

“Yes, ma'am. I stole one, and I used to tie it on a lamp post on Main Street, and then leave it there a few days until it got full of letters. Then I'd empty it and peel the stamps off the letters. Trouble was, I had to deliver the letters myself then. It didn't hardly pay me for my time.”

“I should think not. Well,” she said getting up, “I must go along.”

“Excuse me, ma'am,” said a tall thin prisoner, “we—that is, Dirty Joe has just made a chocolate layer cake, and we was wondering if maybe you wouldn't like to have some with us before you go.”

“I can think of nothing I'd like better,” she said heartily, and sat down again. So they got plates and forks, and straightened up the room. and then they all sat down and had the cake. And while they ate they talked about Freddy. All the prisoners liked him, and were sorry he was in trouble. And when Mrs. Church finally left, they assured her that if there was anything they could do to help him, she had only to let them know.

“I don't know when I've had such a pleasant evening,” she said to the sheriff. “You must all come to my house some evening and have a game of hide and seek. Burglars ought to be specially good at that.”

“We'll look forward to it, ma'am,” said the sheriff.

Chapter 12

On Saturday the hunt for Freddy continued. The state troopers, who didn't know Freddy, and to whom all pigs looked pretty much alike, arrested every one they saw. They arrested thirty-four pigs on Saturday. There was a constant stream of police cars driving up to the Bean house with handcuffed pigs sitting beside the drivers. Then Mr. Bean would look at them and say they weren't Freddy, and they would be let go. Some of them were arrested two and three times, and they were pretty sore about it. The troopers were sore too because they got kidded a lot; people would watch them drive by and call out: “Oh, look at the two pigs!” or “Which one is the trooper?” and such things. They would have quit, if Mr. Bean hadn't offered a reward. He had signs printed and stuck up all over the countryside.

$5.00 Reward

For information leading

to the Arrest of this Pig

Bank Robber

When last seen was wearing

brown pants, green cap, blue

sweater. Height, standing on

hind legs, about 4'4”. May

be armed!!

William F. Bean

Of course everybody that saw a pig called up Mr. Bean right off. He kept Hank harnessed to the buggy all day long, and as soon as a call came in he drove out to look at the pigs. He drove miles and saw more pigs than you would think possible, but he didn't see Freddy. He saw so many that he dreamed of pigs all night long.

Freddy, as a matter of fact, after leaving Centerboro with the money, had circled around by back roads and holed up in the old Grimby place in the Big Woods. This was the deserted house where the animals had once fought and conquered the terrible Ignormus. It was all falling to pieces, and no one ever went there any more—indeed, most people had forgotten that there was such a house. But the animals all knew it. It was a good hideout, because it was near the farm, and Freddy had posted sentinels to warn him if anyone approached. J. J. Pomeroy watched by day, and Uncle Solomon by night.

Saturday night, Jinx came up to give Freddy the news. “Boy, is Mr. Bean sore!” he said. “It's the sausage factory for you, kid, if they catch you. I brought you one of the signs he stuck up.”

Freddy lit a match and looked at it. “'Tisn't very flattering,” he said.

“We all like it,” said Jinx. “I don't know where they got it, but everybody says it looks more like you than you do yourself. Of course it depends on what flatters you. If you'd rather have it look
less
like you…”

“Oh, shut up,” said Freddy. “Why couldn't they have used the one that Mr. Wiese drew for Mr. Bean that time he came out? I just would like to have the picture do me justice.”

“Justice, hey?” said the cat. “You sure would kick if it did that!” He grinned, and then said: “But say, what did you do with the money?”

“Tied it up, and J.J. hung it up in the top of that yellow birch at the corner of the Grimby house. I guess you ought to tell Mrs. Wiggins and Hank, but I wouldn't tell too many of them. They won't give me away, but someone might let it slip. Like Charles—he's an awful loose talker when he gets going.”

Before he left, Jinx told Freddy about that afternoon's football game. The South Pharisee team had won, 6—0. “The boys sure missed you,” he said.

“My goodness,” Freddy said, “I forgot all about it. Well, I guess my football days are over. Mr. Bean can't raise any more money so I'll have to stay here till Doty gets sick of waiting for it and goes away. But even after I give it back, Mr. Bean will still be mad at me. He won't want me around.” He sighed heavily. “I shall be just a wanderer on the face of the earth.”

“You won't wander far if the sheriff's after you,” said the cat. “He may be a friend of yours, but he sure works that posse hard. Well, so long, pig. Be sure and lock the front door.”

Of course there wasn't any lock, there wasn't even any door; but Freddy felt safe with Uncle Solomon on guard. He slept that night on a pile of old sacks in the Grimby attic.

When he went out next morning, he found that Mr. Pomeroy, who was to relieve Uncle Solomon on guard duty at sunrise, hadn't shown up. What had happened, he found later, was that the robin had mislaid his spectacles, and rather than take the time to hunt for them, had started without them. As a result he had flown into a tree and sprained a wing. Unable to fly, he had set out to hop home, where he could get Mrs. Pomeroy to fly up and take his place. But by the time Mrs. Pomeroy got there the excitement was all over.

So Uncle Solomon had to stay on duty, and he was pretty cross about it. But as his crossness took the form of a grumpy silence, Freddy didn't mind, for the screech owl was sometimes a trying companion. He loved to argue and there was hardly anything you could say that he couldn't find an argument against. And then if you finally got worn out and agreed with him, he would turn right around and take your side and argue against you again. He was the only person Freddy knew who could win both sides of an argument.

Freddy had been thinking a good deal about what was going to happen to him. He didn't think Mr. Bean would ever let him come back to the farm. He would indeed be a wanderer on the face of the earth. But the more he thought about it, the more the idea pleased him in a mournful sort of way. It made him, he felt, a very romantic figure, leading a sad, gipsy life, a lonely pig, with a secret sorrow in his heart.

As it was Sunday, Freddy didn't think the sheriff's posse would be out looking for him. He thought he would walk down to the pool where Theodore lived. For he had it in mind to write a poem about the gipsy pig, and some of his best poems had been written on the grassy bank beside that pool.

So he went down through the Big Woods, followed by the watchful but grumpy—and by now, rather sleepy—Uncle Solomon. He crossed the back road, and walked along through the green silence of the Bean woods, murmuring the words to himself and beating out the rhythm with one fore-trotter.

Theodore was glad to see Freddy. “They haven't c-captured you yet, I see,” he said. “Well, you don't have to bub-bub, I mean bother about the troopers. They've given up, according to what I hear. Too busy answering mail. I understand they had eight mail sacks full of letters last night, from people all over the country who think they've seen you and want the reward. There was even a b-batch of air mail letters from California. They claim it would take eight years to investigate all these pigs.”

“That's the trouble with detective work,” said Freddy. “Too many clues are worse than none at all.” He sat down beside the pool. He wanted to recite his poem to Theodore. But you can't just say: “Want to hear my new poem?”, because maybe the other person says No, and then you recite anyway and he gets mad. So he said: “Learned any new songs lately?” For Theodore had quite a fine bass voice, and he collected songs, the way some people collect stamps. He had some very rare old songs that went way back to the sixteenth century—and the nice thing about them was, he said, that they didn't cost anything, and that you always had them with you, and didn't have to protect them against burglars, because nobody could burgle your head.

If the frog had said Yes, Freddy would have had to listen to the new song. But he said No. So Freddy said: “Well, I was just thinking—there's a little thing of mine—oh, it's nothing much—but I was thinking if it was set to music—” And he began hastily to recite.

… and he began hastily to recites:

“
Through the night, through the dark, through the rain and sleet,

By hill and valley and plain
,

Plods the wanderer pig, on weary feet—”

“And his poetry gives me a pain,” interrupted Uncle Solomon, from his lookout on a branch above the pool.

“Oh, keep still!” said Freddy.

“
And his tears they drip like rain,”

he concluded.

“Personally,” said Uncle Solomon, “I prefer my version. It avoids the use of the word ‘they,' which is unnecessary, and it is more solidly constructed. However, as you were no doubt about to point out, it is a criticism of your poem, which, just as it is, heaven knows, is at the moment out of place. H'm, let me see. How's this? ‘The pig with the infantile brain.' More descriptive. I assume, of course, that it is yourself whom you are describing and not some other pig, to whom it might not apply.”

Theodore giggled, but Freddy shrugged and went on.

“
And he sighs, and he moans, and his head bends low
,

And his tail has come uncurled
,

For he has neither mansion nor bungalow—

Not a home in the whole wide world.

“Got you that time!” he said with a triumphant glance at the owl, who evidently hadn't been able to think of a rhyme quick enough.

“
Not a home, not a friend, no uncles or aunts
,

No brothers or sisters or cousins—”