Freddy and Simon the Dictator (10 page)

“You know about the wolves?” Freddy asked.

“Yeah.” Jinx looked serious. “I found out Simon got a bunch of 'em down from the North on a promise of free chickens. That means we'll have to move Charles and his family. How about up in the loft over the stable? There'll be some raids from now on.”

“I saw one tonight,” said Freddy, and told about the overturning of Mr. Schermerhorn's car. “But there's more trouble up at Camphor's,” he went on. “I'm afraid Mr. Camphor's in danger.” And when he had finished his story: “Darn it, Jinx,” he said, “how can I go after Mr. Camphor when there's so much danger of trouble here at the farm? I ought to be here.”

“Yeah?” said the cat. “What can you do against a gang of wolves? Look, Freddy; from what I've heard, we've got about three days. There'll be some raiding first, then in two or three days the big attack. As far as the farm goes, I can handle it for that time. Even after the farm's taken over—and don't kid yourself, it
will
be taken over—I can keep the Beans from getting hurt or being thrown out. I'm really in charge there—until they find me out. Shucks, I had a talk with Garble tonight. Boy, is he rabid against you! Know what I told him?” The cat grinned. “I said you were just the front in the detective business, the big mouth. I said Wiggins solved all your cases. And I said I wrote all your poetry. Yeah, and I said—” Jinx stopped. “No, I better not tell you that; you might get mad. Not that I'd blame you,” he added with a chuckle.

Freddy knew that the cat wanted him to try to find out what scandalous thing he had said, so he changed the subject. “You're sure it'll be two or three days before there's any trouble here?”

“Any big trouble—yes. You can go after Mr. Camphor, get him, and bring him with you. You'll be north of the lake. That's where all those wild animals and the gangs from the hill farms are waiting.”

“And the wolves,” said Freddy with a shudder.

“Wolves won't bother campers. They've had strict orders to wait for the signal, and the signal won't be given for several days. Just be disguised, that's all. Don't let 'em know you're a pig. Boy, I don't suppose some of those big brutes have ever had even a nibble at a nice fat pig.” He smacked his lips. “Makes me kind of envious of them, when they do catch up with you.”

This line of talk didn't seem very funny to Freddy, and he said so. Jinx at once became serious and assured him again that there would be no danger. “Garble wants to make the change over from men to animals without any rough stuff, if he can. Even if they found you out, I don't think they'd eat you. But they'd probably turn you over to Garble. So keep that long nose of yours covered.”

Freddy didn't sleep well that night. Giant wolves with the heads of alligators were snuffling on his trail as he ran desperately down endless forest paths. When they caught him, he woke up, and he woke a dozen times during the night. He was pretty tired by morning. But he was up early, and by seven o'clock had breakfasted and told Mrs. Bean where he was going, and was on his way.

The committee were still in their beds when Freddy and Bannister pushed off in their heavily loaded canoe. Freddy wore the bright checked shirt and the coonskin cap that he had worn on their previous camping trip, but Bannister was still in his butler's getup of starched shirt and tailcoat. The only concession he made to forest travel was to exchange his black shoes for a pair of moccasins.

They paddled straight across the lake to Lakeside, the summer hotel run by Mr. Camphor's friend, Mrs. Filmore. From there, the trail went north to the Indian village. But the Indians had not taken the trail. They had camped on the shore below the hotel, and when Freddy and Bannister climbed out of their canoe, the men of the tribe were sitting on the dock smoking, while the women, whom Freddy had not seen before, were up on the broad porch, spreading out the contents of their packs —hunting shirts and beaded moccasins and sweet-grass baskets—for sale to the guests, who were crowding round them.

Bannister went up to the chief and raised his right hand. “How,” he said.

“How,” the chief replied.

They talked together for a few minutes in what Freddy supposed was the Otesaraga language, then Bannister said: “The chief says Mr. Camphor has gone fishing with Running Deer. He'll be back after a while. He says Mr. Camphor ran away because he didn't want to be governor.”

“That's what I thought,” Freddy said. “But he'll have to come home. It's too dangerous in the woods. You ought to tell the chief, it may be dangerous for the Indians too. Though maybe the animals won't bother them.”

“I told him that. He says Mr. Camphor will be all right with the Indians. They're going to go farther north and east for the rest of the summer, until the wolves are out of the woods.”

“Wolf no bad,” said the chief. “But cow in woods, ugh, heap bad medicine!”

“Oh,” said Freddy, “I didn't know you talked English.”

“Sure,” said the chief. “Talk-um good. Paleface talk. Ugh.”

“You talk-um fine,” said Freddy.

“Sure,” said the chief. “Grass-on-face, he safe with Injun. Wolf no bite-um, cow no hook-um. He stay with Injun.”

“Grass-on-face is Mr. Camphor's Indian name,” Bannister explained. “His mustache, I fancy.”

“You like buy-um deerskin shirt?” the chief asked. “My squaw she make-um, she sell-um. She come now.” He nodded towards a fat Indian woman, with her black hair hanging in two braids beside her face, who came towards them holding out a fringed buckskin shirt. Freddy felt of it. It was as soft as silk. He wanted it. He thought it would go nicely with the coonskin hat.

He said: “Me like-um shirt. How much?”

“Fi'teen dolla',” said the squaw. “Look nice with cap.” She held it up against him. “Wah!” she exclaimed. “White brother look like Davy Crockett.”

Freddy said: “I like. I like buy. But—” He slapped his pocket—“me no got much wampum.”

The chief and his wife looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Wampum!” said the chief. “I'll bet it's ten years since I've heard that word.” He was speaking perfectly good English. “We must remember to use it on the customers, Ella.”

Freddy was taken aback. “Hey,” he said, “what's the idea of making me talk that Injun Joe talk. You speak better English than I do.” He turned to Bannister. “I feel silly,” he said.

“No need to,” said the squaw. “We just use that kind of talk on the customers. Summer people seem to expect it. Henry and I have both been through high school, but do you think people would buy baskets and stuff from us if we talked good English?”

“If you really want that shirt,” said the chief, “we'll trust you. You're a friend of Mr. Camphor's. Old Grass-on-face,” he added with a grin, then turned, and said something in Otesaraga to Bannister.

The butler laughed. “He says your name in Indian is Ham-that-walks.”

“You mean you knew I was a pig? In this getup? But how …”

“We're Indians,” the chief replied. “We're trained to notice little things that a white man would miss. Like how long your nose is and you haven't any eyebrows, and your feet don't fit those moccasins. Anyway, we've heard of you from Mr. Camphor. He said you'd probably come after him.”

The sputter of a gasoline engine which had been audible for some time now grew louder, and an open launch, slowly towing a small houseboat, headed for the hotel dock. Freddy recognized it as the houseboat on which he had spent a summer several years ago as Mr. Camphor's caretaker. On the upper deck, still sitting in wicker chairs and roaring with laughter, were the committee. Evidently the supply of jokes had not yet been exhausted.

Just as the houseboat was tying up at the dock, a canoe came around the point and slid up to the pilings. In it were an Indian and Mr. Camphor and a string of fish. But Mr. Camphor was not easy to recognize. He had shaved off his mustache and painted his face in bars of yellow and black. He climbed out of the canoe and walked up to the houseboat, holding up his catch. “You buy-um fish?” he said to Senator Blunder, who with the rest of the committee was leaning over the rail, looking down at him.

“No, no,” said the Senator, shaking his head. “We no buy-um fish. We look for Mr. Camphor. Man live over there.” He pointed across the lake.

“You look for Mis'er Camphum—big fat man. Sure, we know.”

“No, he's not fat,” said Colonel Buglett. “He little, insignificant-looking feller. Bristly mustache. You know um? You see um today?”

“Oh, insignifcum, hey?” returned Mr. Camphor. “You call him name. Me no like. Me his friend. Me come when sun gone down. Kerow!” He made a circular movement with one finger over the top of his head. “Take scalp. Camphum hang 'em in tepee.”

“Isn't there anybody here that speaks English?” Judge Anguish demanded. “Oh, here you, Bannister. I didn't see you. What are you doing over here?”

“The same thing you are, sir,” said the butler. “Looking for Mr. Camphor. Mr. Frederick and I rather thought the Indians might have kidnapped him. But as you see, sir, he's not with them.”

“On the other hand,” Freddy put in hastily, “if they intend to scalp him or burn him at the stake or something like that, they might have sent him on to the village under guard. I notice that two Indians are missing.”

“Good gracious,” said the judge, “you mean they really go in for that sort of thing nowadays —burning and scalping?”

“Oh, I think only once in a while. They will have their fun, you know.”

“Fun!” the judge exclaimed. “Really, Mr., -ah, Freddy!”

“I'm only quoting them, sir,” said the pig.

“But shouldn't we go after them—rescue him?” said Mr. Glockenspiel. “At least—well, we could call the state troopers.”

“That would only seal his fate, I'm afraid. The troopers would find no sign of him at the village. And—well, sir, it wouldn't be too healthy for you if you did call the troopers. The Indians are very revengeful. They might even vote Democratic.”

The committee looked alarmed. They discussed the matter for a few minutes among themselves. Presently Colonel Buglett summed up the general feeling. “Well,” he said, “I do not propose to risk
my
life to rescue Camphor, if the Indians really have got him. All we know for sure is that he has disappeared. I suggest that we go back to his house and await his return. There is no need of questioning the Indians and arousing their enmity.”

“If you will permit me to say so,” Freddy said, “I think that is the wisest course. If he does not return after say a week—well, the state will have lost a fine governor. But I beg you, don't attempt to prove anything against the Indians if he doesn't show up. Eh, Grass-on-face?” he said, turning to Mr. Camphor. “You no likeum police, eh? Somebody send police after you, you heap mad, eh?”

“Me kill-um.” Mr. Camphor made a ferocious face. “Me scalp-um.” Then he drew himself up and began to make an oration in Otesaragan, or what sounded like it. It was a long oration.

Freddy pretended to translate, although he had not understood a word, and he doubted if Mr. Camphor had either. “He warns you,” Freddy said, “not to interfere in the affairs of the tribe. He says that if you do, the tribe will hunt you down, burn your wigwams—by which I suppose he means your houses—and take your scalps and those of your families to decorate their lodges. And I really think, gentlemen, that he means it. I strongly advise that you go back and wait.”

“Is that all he said?” asked Colonel Buglett. “Why, he talked for ten minutes.”

“I didn't translate it all,” Freddy said. “He was describing just what he and his friends would do to you, and somehow—well, I didn't think you'd care to hear it.”

The committee didn't hang around after that. Mr. Slurp started the engine of the launch. As the houseboat drew away from the dock, Mr. Camphor turned to Freddy. “I make-um fine speech. Ugh.”

“I make-um darn good translation, and a couple of ughs,” Freddy replied. “Now you just stay away for a week and they'll go on home and elect somebody else.”

CHAPTER

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