Freddy and Simon the Dictator (16 page)

Freddy found it hard to tell whether the revolution was losing or gaining ground. Reports of the A.B.I. seemed to show that half of the farms in the county were in the hands of the animals; but deprived of the big voice that had kept up their resentment against humans, the animals had certainly become milder. No more houses had been burned, and there was little of the rioting that had marked the first days of the revolt. If it had not been for the wolves, and for the gangs of wild cattle who patrolled the countryside, Freddy felt that with the help of the dogs, things could be quieted down.

For in most cases, the dogs had remained faithful to their masters. They rounded up the cows and drove them into the barns every night, and often broke up meetings which they felt might cause trouble. Of course, they couldn't tackle the wolves, since being cow dogs, they worked singly and not in packs; and they hesitated to try driving the tough northern cattle.

Mr. Camphor's speech on votes for animals, too, had made a favorable impression. Most animals figured that if they got the vote, and could have some say in how the country would be governed, they would be better off than they would under a dictator. A number of them sent word secretly to Freddy that they didn't like the new way of doing things, and that if he had any idea of leading them back to the old way, they would be with him. Most of the animals living on the Bean farm, with the exception of some of the rabbits and woodchucks and others who had been influenced by Simon's inflammatory speeches, were still loyal.

The morning after Mr. Camphor's speech, Freddy and Jinx had a talk with Robert, the collie, and the little brown dog, Georgie. Then all four of them went up and had a talk with Mr. Schermerhorn's dog, Johnny, and Mr. Witherspoon's Spot, and Mr. Macy's Shep. And then they went down to see Mr. J. J. Pomeroy, and had him send out twenty bumblebee operatives of the A.B.I to invite all the dogs within a radius of fifteen miles to a mass meeting at the Grimby house that night.

There must have been four hundred dogs at the meeting. Freddy did not address them himself; he had Robert do it, since he felt that a meeting of dogs should be addressed by a dog. Also, Robert was known and respected throughout the countryside.

A sliver of new moon was setting in the west when Robert stepped up onto the top cellar step. “Friends and fellow canines,” he said, and all across the clearing, he could see hundreds of tails slowly wagging. From that moment, he knew that he had his audience with him.

He began with some discussion of the traditional friendship between dog and man. The dog, he said, was man's elder brother. He guarded and watched over him; no other animal so had man's trust and liking. Their relationship was founded on mutual affection. And so on.

On the other hand, Robert went on, the dog and the rat were natural enemies. The dog was straightforward, trusting, and reliable; the rat was dishonest, sneaky, and disloyal. Simon, who had set himself up to be dictator over an animal empire, was no exception. “If we accept his rule,” Robert said, “we will lose that which we value most, our freedom. In place of affection, there will be suspicion; in place of kindness, cruelty; in place of trust, hypocrisy.

“Now, my friends, many of us have felt hopeless in the face of these dark days that have fallen upon us. Many of our friends have gone over to the side of the revolutionists; our masters have been driven from their homes or shut up in them like prisoners. I cannot speak for other animals, but I think that few dogs look forward with any confidence to a life under a dictator. The novelty of the idea that the animals can take over is, I think, the reason why it has been taken up so enthusiastically by many of our neighbors. Looked at more closely, the idea is completely unsound.

“But what can we do? Singly, my friends, nothing! But look about you. In this clearing about the Grimby house tonight, there are enough of us, were we but banded together, to drive wolves and cattle and horses back to where they came from. And to keep them there. To bring back the good old times that we long for, and to keep them here. My friends, what do you say, shall we bring them back?”

The wagging tails in the clearing were like a wind-tossed lake, and the dogs barked frantic applause. When it had died down, Robert said: “My proposal is that we form into regiments of a hundred dogs each. You realize that this will be military service; those of you who have the job of protecting a farm or a home will have to give up that job while you are on duty. But if we do organize, and stick to our duty, I don't think it will be long before we can all go home.”

Dogs have a good sense of discipline. Before the meeting broke up, there were four regiments organized and standing to attention under Robert, Shep, and two wise old cow dogs from Dutch Flats, Hughie and Bosco. The regiments were to alternate service every two days, but two were to be on duty at all times, one at headquarters, the Bean farm, the other on patrol duty.

As soon as Ezra learned of these new developments, he divided his forces into two groups, one based on the cellar of the Grimby house, the other on the cave. Now his patrols, which had been in the habit of going out by threes and fours to keep order among the farms which he controlled, had to go out by twenties, and even this wasn't enough if a patrol ran into one of the dog regiments. For even one cow dog could handle a dozen cows, and though few single dogs were a match for a wolf, a hundred dogs could make mincemeat of a small wolf pack.

But neither dogs nor wolves believed this until it came to a trial. Freddy was up on the back road with the First Regiment. He was riding his bicycle, as he frequently did when he went out with the dogs. Some of the bumblebees of the A.B.I. had brought word that there were two patrols in the neighborhood; one had just left Schermerhorn's where there had been a report that Mr. Schermerhorn had shot at a wolf the previous night, and to punish him for this, he had been ordered to sleep in the barn and wash at the pump from now on. Both patrols were moving towards the Bean farm.

From where Freddy stood, the ground sloped away sharply to the south. Down the slope, his own pig pen and the chicken house were visible, though the rest of the Bean buildings were shut from view by the trees of Mr. Bean's woods. On the other side of the road was the Big Woods. As he watched, half a dozen wolves trotted out into the open space around the pig pen, sat down, lifted their muzzles in the air, and began to howl.

“My gosh,” said Freddy, “they're after the chickens! Look, Robert, there come some horses and a couple of those tough cows. They're backing up to kick the door in! Robert, we must do something!”

“Don't see what we can do,” the collie replied. “We can't tackle those wolves. We could drive the horses and cattle all right, but those wolves will tear us to pieces. What could poor little Georgie do against a wolf?”

Freddy looked around at the dogs who were lying about at the side of the road or sniffing about in the brush. “You're almost as big as a wolf, Robert,” he said, “and so are half these dogs. If half a dozen poor little Georgies—beagles and cockers and fox terriers—are on the other end of your wolf, I should think you could manage him all right. Darn it, look! they're starting on the door. By George, if you won't order a charge, I'll go down and tackle them alone.” And he got astride his bicycle, which was pointed downhill at the edge of the road, and put a foot on the pedal.

The dogs had heard him and crowded about him to look. Whether he would really have charged alone down the slope to the rescue of his friends is open to some doubt. What happened was that his foot slipped, gave a strong push on the pedal, and the next thing he knew, he was careering down the hill. His yell of dismay must have been taken by the dogs as the order to charge, for within seconds, they were bounding along beside him—matching bound for bound, for the ground was hummocky and uneven and it was a miracle that he managed to keep to the saddle, or rather to come back down on it after each tremendous bound.

Faster and faster the ground whizzed by, and as his speed increased, the noses of the leading dogs fell back. By the time he reached the pig pen, he was a good three lengths in the lead, and he was having less and less contact with the saddle of his bicycle. Fortunately, when the bicycle finally crashed head-on into a long-horned cow, Freddy was not on it. He was in the middle of a bound, a good two feet above the saddle. Consequently, he was above the cow; he flew right over her and knocked the wind out of a wolf.

He scrambled to his feet; the wolf was out cold, and the cow was still entangled with the bicycle; but all around him was a leaping, snarling, snapping whirlpool of wolves and dogs and cows. Freddy thought he had better get into it. A wolf's hind leg went by; he grabbed it and crunched.

A pig's teeth are sharp and he has a lot of them. That crunch was no joke. The wolf twisted around and tried to slash Freddy, but Freddy shook him out straight and crunched harder; and after trying this a few times, the wolf gave in. “Leggo,” he said. “I quit. I give in.”

Freddy was so astonished at having won a fight with a wolf that for a moment he just hung on.

“Hey, quit it,” said the wolf. “I said I gave up. What do you want—to chew that leg right off me?”

So Freddy let go and the wolf limped off and lay down in the shade of the pig pen and panted.

The fight was going badly for the revolutionists. The cows and horses had had their ankles nipped unmercifully, and when they turned to threaten their tormentors with hoofs or horns, other dogs started nipping and driving them. One little dog was from Centerboro—he was a beagle named Sweetie-Pie who belonged to Mrs. Lafayette Bingle, and who in the early days of the revolution had chased Dr. Wintersip up a tree—this Sweetie-Pie was so good at it that after the fight he was appointed Captain in Charge of Cows, and a few months later left Mrs. Bingle and took a job as cow dog on a big farm in the south of the county. Now the cows were in full retreat, and the wolves too were trying to pull out of the fight.

And, suddenly, the dogs found that there wasn't anybody to fight. Except for half a dozen wolves who had been bitten up and were too exhausted to run, and the cow who had got entangled with Freddy's bicycle, the enemy was gone. And then the door of the pig pen opened and Charles strutted out.

“Well fought, lads,” he said. “Well fought indeed! It is to my deep regret that I could not give you a hand, for the bolt stuck again and I could not get the door open. But though unhappily it was not I who led you on to victory, my hearty thanks to you, one and all.”

Sweetie-Pie turned from the rooster to Robert. “Who's this cannibal?” he asked.

“My good sir,” said Charles pompously, “your ignorance regarding my name and—er, accomplishments is perhaps to be excused on the ground that you are a stranger to this part of the country. I am Charles. Does that satisfy you?”

“It's no more than I expected,” said the dog darkly. And then with sudden ferocity, he shouted: “My name is Sweetie-Pie; you want to make something of it?”

Charles started back in alarm. “Make something? I fail to see what one could make—that is, no, it's a very pretty name. Your owner must be very fond of you to call you such a pretty name.”

“Fond of me!” Sweetie-Pie shrieked. “I'm the worst-tempered dog in Centerboro! I chase bicycles and bite postmen and pick on cats! So would you if you had a name like that. Laugh, Why don't you? Laugh and see what happens to those tail feathers.”

Charles was like most stupid people, he was not stupid all the time. He had occasional flashes of common sense, and even of brilliance. He had one now. He saw clearly why Sweetie-Pie was bad-tempered, and he said: “Yes, I guess I would. But you can change your name, can't you? What's the matter with Fritz? Or Tige? They're good names.”

“Sure they are. But how could I change when everybody on the block calls me Sweetie-Pie?”

But Charles was tired of the dog's troubles, and besides he wanted to make a speech before the regiment drifted away again. “I guess that's your problem,” he said, and hopped up on the garden chair beside the door.

“Friends and noble rescuers,” he began, “on behalf of my dear wife, my twenty-seven innocent children, and myself, I wish to tender you my heartfelt thanks and gratitude—” But after the first perfunctory cheer, the animals turned to discussing what should be done with the prisoners, and they paid no more attention to Charles. So I don't know why we should either.

CHAPTER

16