Freddy and Simon the Dictator (8 page)

Mike said he sometimes wished he had never taken up burglary professionally. “There ain't really any future in it,” he said.

“Yeah?” said a prisoner named Louie the Lump, “that ain't very complimentary to the sheriff, here. You made out all right, Mike, didn't you—landing in a nice jail like this? What more future do you want?”

“Well,” Mike said, “what I want is just what I got—a nice place to live and good company. But it ain't burglary. A good burglar thinks it's a disgrace to get caught and jailed. Me, I get out, and I just live for the time when I stand up before the judge and he says: ‘Six months in the county jail.'”

“I don't blame you,” Mr. Bean said. “If I wasn't married and didn't have a farm to look after, I'd commit a real bang-up good crime and try to get sent up here for life. As it is, I guess I'd better get back home.” So he said good-by and got in the buggy and drove Freddy and Jinx home.

They had almost reached the farm when Mr. Bean pulled up suddenly. He pointed to a poster on a tree by the roadside. “That isn't a regular ‘no trespassing' notice,” he said. “Go get it, Freddy.”

So Freddy hopped down and ripped the poster from the tree and brought it back.

They looked at it in silence. There was a picture of a man with a gun standing beside a bear he had shot. Above in large print, it said: “Will You Be Next?” And underneath: “How long does it take you, animals, to learn that men are your deadly enemies? How long will you submit to be beaten and starved and shot by them? Now is your chance—the first real chance in a thousand years—to get back the right to live as free animals in a world that belongs to you, not to your so-called masters. Join up today.” And the poster was signed with a large S.

“You know who S is?” Mr. Bean demanded.

The animals shook their heads.

“Well, if he ain't a man, he's got a man helping him. Because this here poster was printed in a print shop, and no animal could do that. Hey, Hank; turn around. We'll go see Mr. Dimsey.”

Mr. Dimsey was the publisher of the Centerboro
Guardian
and he also printed Freddy's newspaper, the
Bean Home News
. When he was shown the poster, he frowned. “No, I didn't print that,” he said, “but it was printed here on my press—I recognize the type. And I know when it was printed. I was home with the flu for ten days a week or so ago, and when I came back to the shop I saw somebody had been here, working with the press. Nothing was taken, and everything was in order, so I didn't make a fuss about it.”

“You know who it was?” Freddy asked.

“I've got a pretty good idea. Herb Garble had the
Guardian
once; he can set type and run a press. Far as I know, he's the only other printer in town.”

They thanked him and went on home. They saw more posters on the way, and each time Freddy climbed out and tore them down.

Freddy found that there had been developments while he was away. Mrs. Wiggins said that she was followed wherever she went by spies—rabbits, usually; and several of the other animals said they had the impression that they were being watched, but they couldn't pin the impression down definitely. Mr. Pomeroy reported that Mr. Garble had been seen up by the Grimby house several times, but since he owned the Big Woods, there was nothing really very peculiar about that. The robin also reported that some bumblebees, who had flown up across Otesaraga Lake and cruised along the edge of the Adirondacks, had brought word of a good deal of activity in the forest. They had seen a lot of cows and horses, who don't usually live in the woods; as well as a number of big shaggy dogs, such as they had never seen before. The posters showing the man with the bear he had shot, as well as others showing animals in cages, or tied up, or with muzzles on, had been tacked up all around the Centerboro region. What was even more serious, a good many farm animals had already left their homes and apparently joined up with the rebels.

That was the last peaceful day that the Bean farm was to enjoy for many weeks. Early in the afternoon Uncle Solomon flew down to see Freddy. With him was Old Whibley. It was unusual for the screech owl to come out in the daytime; it was unheard of for Whibley. They had come to warn the Beans. The woods up north of the lake were fairly boiling with animals—tough old horses and cattle from northern hill farms, bears and bobcats and coyotes and even a few panthers. “Hasn't been a panther in the state before in seventy-five years,” said Whibley.

“What do you think we ought to do?” Freddy asked.

“Get out!” said Old Whibley explosively. “Get away while you can, and take the Beans with you.”

“But why?” said Freddy. “After all, what can they do? And these little meetings at the Grimby house—”

“These little meetings, as you call them,” said Uncle Solomon, “are one small part of a big scheme. The speaker gets the farm animals discontented with their life, he tells them that they are fools to let humans rule them. He tells them lies about humans, and because he repeats his lies, they believe them. He's a rabble rouser, and a good one.”

“I suppose you mean by that,” Freddy said, “that he is a clever speaker who can stir up his listeners to any crazy kind of violent action that he tells them to take. Yes, I heard him; it's true. But he didn't stir up me or Jinx, or you, Uncle Solomon.”

“We are loyal, and we've got some sense—at least I have,” said the screech owl with his tittering laugh. “I'm sometimes not so sure about you. Not when you talk as if whoever it is that makes those speeches up at the Grimby house is just a joke.”

“Do you know who he is?” Freddy asked.

Both owls shook their heads. “We've never seen him. But whoever he is, he must come from this neighborhood, to know as much as he does about all these farmers. And he's not a man; no man could move around among those burned beams in the Grimby cellar—he'd be too big.”

“But his voice,” said Freddy. “It's—goodness, it's big. Bigger than any man's.”

“So was the voice of that clockwork boy Mr. Benjamin Bean built,” said Whibley.

“Golly, that's right,” said the pig. “He had a microphone built in him, and that rooster, Ronald, used to run him. Why, if he turned the sound up, a mouse could be heard all over the farm. But you don't think it's a little animal that's making those speeches, do you?”

“Don't you read your history?” said Uncle Solomon. “Hitler was an insignificant-looking little man, but he was one of the greatest rabble rousers that ever lived.”

“Oh dear,” said Freddy, “you really think we're in danger? What could those animals do? Mr. Bean has a gun, and he could telephone the sheriff, if any animals came around and started to destroy things.”

“We can't do more than warn you,” said Old Whibley. “It's our belief that that mob up in the woods is about ready to march. If they do, Mr. Bean's gun will be about as much protection as a cap pistol. Well, we've said our say. Come along, Sol.” And he spread his big wings and flew off.

Uncle Solomon started to follow, then paused. “You have disappointed me, pig,” he said. “I assured Whibley that you would take our advice. But I see that the natural stupidity of the porcine race has finally extinguished the feeble glimmers of intelligence which I have sometimes thought to discern in you. A pity.” His cold little laugh rippled out and then he too went.

CHAPTER

8

Freddy's effort to persuade Mr. Bean to abandon the farm was, as he had expected, useless. Mr. Bean flatly refused. “I ain't going to run from an enemy I haven't seen,” he said. “Oh, I know that these animals could make a lot of trouble, but if we stick together we can fight 'em off.”

There seemed to be nothing to do but wait, so Freddy decided to go and see if he could persuade Mr. Camphor to come down and stay at the Beans' where at least they would all be together. He went up through the Big Woods, giving the Grimby house a wide berth, then across a corner of the Schermerhorn farm and along the edge of the Witherspoon pastures to the top of the hill, from which he could see the blue waters of the lake. Beside the lake, surrounded by green lawns, stood the Camphor mansion.

Freddy was nearly a mile away, but he was remarkably far-sighted, and on the terrace before the house, he could see the committee sitting in their garden chairs. But what made him stop and stare—on the lawn that sloped down from the terrace to the lake four bark canoes were pulled up. And around them were grouped a number of men on whose oiled bodies the sun glinted. He could even make out that several of the men had their heads shaved, except for the long scalp lock. Indians! Well, he knew that there were some Indians living in the woods; they made things—moccasins and baskets of sweet grass and such, that they sold to summer people. But they were tame Indians, civilized Indians. And this looked like a war party.

“Golly,” he said to himself, “I wonder if I ought to go down! I don't want to get massacred.” But the committee seemed to be taking it calmly. It looked pretty safe. So he went on.

Miss Anguish had joined the committee on the terrace, and she waved to Freddy and patted the seat of a chair beside her. “Sit here, Chief,” she said. “Unless you're taking part in the dance.”

Mr. Camphor said: “This is Frederick Bean, the poet, Miss Anguish. You met him yesterday. The chief is the one with the feather headdress, just getting his make-up on.”

“But that's black and white he's putting on—war paint!” Freddy exclaimed. “Is this business safe?”

“Sure. I've known these Indians a long time. They're Otesaragas—I think some offshoot of the Six Nations. They have a settlement about thirty miles north of the lake, and summers they come down and sell stuff to tourists and summer people. I asked them to come down and put on a dance for the committee.”

Miss Anguish put fluttering fingers on Freddy's arm. “Tell me, Chief, have you lifted any good scalps lately?” she asked, and gave a trill of silver laughter that reminded him of Uncle Solomon.

Freddy said: “Haven't had much luck lately. But—” he lowered his voice, “we've got a nice raid coming up. We're planning to raid the Centerboro Rotary Club meeting tomorrow night. The trouble is, so many of the members are bald. Not much good as decorations.”

“You ought to raid it on Ladies' Night,” said Miss Anguish, and laughed again. “Look, they're going to dance; aren't you going to join them?”

Freddy grinned. “I think I'll sit this one out,” he said. “Hey, what's Jimson doing?”

Mr. Camphor, who had been talking with the chief, had suddenly stripped off his coat and shirt and the chief was painting his face and chest in broad bars of black and white. “For goodness' sake, is he going on the war path?”

Mr. Camphor swam a good deal during the summer; his skin was sunburned nearly as dark as the Indians'. Now when with a tomahawk in his hand he took his place among the others who began yelling and stamping and cavorting in a circle on the grass, Freddy had a hard time distinguishing him from the Indians. “Gosh, they look just like the Horribles!” Freddy thought, remembering the way the disguised rabbits had pranced and flourished knives about their scared victims.