Freddy and the Perilous Adventure (17 page)

Time after time the same thing happened. Freddy hardly had to struggle at all. He just waited until he was almost down, and at the last moment each time something happened to Mr. Golcher so that Freddy could wriggle free. It was a good deal like the struggle in the balloon basket, when Leo had been secretly helping, but there was certainly nobody on the platform but themselves and Mr. Boomschmidt, whose anxious face kept appearing to Freddy, now upside down, now sidewise, now right side up, as bent over the wrestlers.

One thing was certain, though. Mr. Golcher was getting tired. He had all but had the decision a dozen times, and the effort was beginning to tell on him. He was panting heavily, and his grip was becoming weaker, his movements slower. To the spectators, it began to look like a slow motion picture of a wrestling match. And then all at once he gave a moan and fell limply across the pig. Freddy wriggled out, then getting his snout under Mr. Golcher, rolled him over on his back.

“Third fall for Freddy!” shouted Mr. Boomschmidt. He seized Freddy's right fore trotter and help it up. “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner! Freddy, the Perilous Pig, wins the hundred dollar purse so generously donated by Boomschmidt's Colossal and Unparalleled Circus.” He handed the roll of bills to the pig.

The cheers rocked the bandstand, as Mr. Golcher got slowly to his knees. He was trying to say something, but the noise was so great that nobody could hear him until Mr. Boomschmidt held up his hand for silence.

“And now,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, “a word from Mr. Henry P. Golcher, the Bounding Balloonist, whose gallant effort, though doomed to defeat, will be remembered as long as the beautiful village of South Pharisee continues to stand, mirrored in the calm waters of Bounding Brook. A gallant fight, my friends, which deserves to go down in history with Thermopylae, with the Alamo, with Boomschmidt's—”

“Hey, boss,” interrupted Leo; “let him talk.”

“Eh?” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “My goodness, of course. Now, Mr. Golcher?”

“He wouldn't have won,” panted Mr. Golcher, “if somebody hadn't kept sticking pins in me.”

“Pins?” said Mr. Boomschmidt.

“Look at the back of my neck,” said Mr. Golcher, turning around.

“No pins there,” said Mr. Boomschmidt.

“Of course there aren't. But you can see where they were stuck into me.”

“Little red spots,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “H'm, yes. Maybe you're coming down with the measles, Golcher. My goodness, Leo, how awful that would be! None of our animals have ever had measles, have they? Golcher, you must leave. Measles are catching.”

“‘Is,' boss,” said Leo.

“Is, boss?” repeated Mr. Boomschmidt, frowning at the lion. “What kind of talk is that, Leo? Really, you get harder to understand every day. What on earth—”

“Measles
is
,” said Leo. “Measles is singular.”

“Won't be singular if all the elephants and tigers and hyenas get them. Mice is; measles is,” he muttered. “I can never get these things straight. But, see here, Golcher—”

“Wait a minute,” said Freddy. “In the darkness up under the roof of the bandstand his eye had caught a tiny gleam of light—such a glimmer as a strand of cobweb will make when it catches the sunlight. And looking more closely, he saw that there was indeed a long strand hanging down from the center of the roof, and ending just over his head. And right at the end was Mr. Webb, looking—Freddy thought, though it is always hard, even close up, to tell about a spider's expression—very pleased with himself.

“Mr. Golcher is right,” he said. “It wasn't pins, though; it was a friend of mine, a spider. He slid down and bit you on the neck, every time you were about to win. I'm sorry. I suppose he thought he was helping me. But it wasn't fair. This money doesn't belong to me.” And he handed the hundred dollars to Mr. Golcher. “You'd have won,” he said. “I guess this belongs to you.”

Mr. Golcher looked at the pig in amazement. “You mean you—you're
giving
it to me?”

“I lost,” said Freddy. “At least, I would have if the match had been fair.”

Mr. Golcher frowned and fingered the bills uneasily. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess that's so. You could have kept it—I suppose you know that? Nobody knew about the spider. Referee didn't see him, and what the referee don't see, don't count. Yeah.” He looked up quickly at Freddy, then down at the money in his hand. “Do you
like
being honest?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” said Freddy truthfully.

“Then why do you do it when you don't have to?”

“I don't know. I suppose maybe because Mr. Bean thinks I'm honest. I sort of want him to be right.”

“H'm,” said Mr. Golcher. “Nobody ever thought
I
was honest, I guess.”

“Why should they?” asked Leo drily.

Mr. Golcher didn't answer him. “I suppose I might try it some time,” he said thoughtfully.

“You could try it now,” said Freddy. “With that two hundred dollars.”

“Now?” exclaimed Mr. Golcher. “Well, not
now
; not
today
. Golcher don't feel the strength for it today. Some day you hunt up Golcher when he's feeling good and strong, and then you try him with something small—say about ten cents, to begin with. Work him up gradual.” He slipped into the robe which Hannibal held for him.

Mr. Boomschmidt had stepped to the edge of the platform and was telling the crowd what had happened. There was some grumbling among them when they learned that Mr. Golcher had taken the purse, but Mr. Boomschmidt knew how to handle an audience, and he got them into a good temper by explaining that although the rules of fair play made it necessary for Mr. Golcher to take the money, neither of the contestants had won, since it was really Mr. Webb who had thrown Mr. Golcher the second time.

“The spider ought to get the money, then,” shouted one man.

“Good gracious, what would a spider do with a hundred dollars?” said Mr. Boomschmidt.

“He could buy a lot of flies with it,” said the man, and the crowd laughed and began to break up.

“Well, come on, pig,” said Leo, with a glance at Mr. Golcher, who had drawn a large wallet from the pocket of his gown and was stuffing the money into it. The balloonist looked angry and uncomfortable.

“What's the matter, Golcher?” asked Leo with a grin. “Did your right hand gyp your left hand out of part of the cash?”

“Oh, mind your business,” said Mr. Golcher sullenly.

“Hey, what are you so cross about?” retorted the lion. “You won the bout and collected the money. You ought to be pleased.”

“I'm cross at him, if you must know,” said Mr. Golcher, pointing at Freddy.

“Well, for goodness' sake!” said Freddy with some irritation, “I don't know what call you've got to be cross at me. I gave up the money because—”

“That's just it!” interrupted Mr. Golcher. “I won the bout, didn't I? But everybody is praising you for losing it.”

“Rats!” said Leo disgustedly. “They're praising him because he played fair, even though you hadn't played fair with him.”

Mr. Golcher put his hands on his knees and bent down and scowled angrily into Freddy's face. “You think you're better than I am,” he said furiously. “They all think you're better than I am. And Golcher can't
stand
it!” he shouted suddenly. He jumped up and, fumbling in his wallet, drew out a packet of bills and slammed them down at Freddy's feet. “Golcher ain't going to have
anybody
saying a pig is better than him!”

Freddy picked up the bills. “Two hundred,” he said. “This is Mr. Bean's money. Why, Mr. Golcher—”

“Take it,” interrupted Mr. Golcher, “and get out before I change my mind. Because I'm going to change it. I can feel it changing now. It's saying to me: ‘Golcher, you're being a fool. Do you want to give two hundred dollars just so folks will say you're as good as a pig?' I ain't got the strength to stand up against that kind of an argument. Go
on
! What are you waiting for?”

“Well, dye my hair!” said Leo. “If the guy wants to be honest, far be it from us to stop him. Grab your money, pig, and run.”

Chapter 16

That evening after the show, Mr. Boomschmidt gave a large party for the Bean animals, and the next morning he drove them home himself in his own private car. This car was a large sedan, and was the only vehicle connected with the circus which was not painted red and gold, and decorated with pictures and signs. “Sometimes,” Mr. Boomschmidt said, “I like to get away from the circus for a while, but, my goodness, if I had signs all over this car, everybody'd think I was a parade and I wouldn't get any peace and quiet. This way, I can drive around the country, and nobody knows who I am.”

Freddy thought that Mr. Boomschmidt, with his silk hat and bright plaid suit, would be known anywhere, even if on the center of each door panel of the car there hadn't been the name: Boomschmidt, in red Gothic lettering, and tastefully surmounted with a small gilt crown. But of course he didn't say so.

Mr. Boomschmidt took them for a short drive before starting for the farm, and as they were passing through the village of South Pharisee, Freddy saw a little boy sitting disconsolately on the front steps of a house. He was Jimmy Wiggs, the boy that Freddy had fallen on at the wrestling match. So Mr. Boomschmidt stopped the car and Freddy got out.

The boy jumped up. “You're Freddy. Did you win the bout?”

“No,” said Freddy. “Mr. Golcher won. I'm sorry I fell on you. Are you all right again?”

“Oh, sure. It didn't really hurt me. I guess it was kind of an honor, Mr. Freddy, to be fallen on by you.”

“Well, I know some people that wouldn't feel that way about it,” said the pig. “But who's that?” he asked, as the heads of several larger boys appeared over the hedge that separated the lawn from the yard next door, and began sticking out their tongues at Freddy, and grunting, and calling: “Oink, oink!” in disgusting voices.

“Oh, that's Jack, my older brother, and his gang. They haven't got any manners. I guess—well maybe you better go, Mr. Freddy.”

Mr. Boomschmidt had got out of the car and he went towards the intruders. “My gracious, what's the matter, you boys?” he asked. “Are you sick or something? Shall I call a doctor?”

“Nah,” said Jack. And he went on calling: “Oink, oink! Jimmy's talking to a pig. Is that part of your big circus, Jimmy?”

“What's this about a circus?” asked Freddy.

Jimmy explained that he and his friends, having seen the Boomschmidt show yesterday, had decided to have a circus of their own in the back yard. They had rounded up some neighborhood dogs and cats, and a chicken or two, and had put signs on them: “Most ferocious lion in captivity,” and so on. They had been having a lot of fun getting the show ready, but then Jack and his gang had found out about it, and had begun to make fun of them. And that wasn't the worst of it. Jack had organized what he called the “Lion Hunters' Club,” and he said that when the circus opened, he was going to unfasten the cages and let all the animals out, and then the lion hunters were going to have a big lion hunt all over the neighborhood.

“I don't care so much about his breaking up our circus,” said Jimmy, “but Jack isn't very good to animals, and I'm afraid maybe Pete—he's my dog—and Mary Hughes' kitten, and some of the other pets will get hurt.”

Freddy looked at Mr. Boomschmidt, and Mr. Boomschmidt looked at Freddy, and then Freddy said: “Let's see your circus grounds.”

So Jimmy took them around into the back yard. There were a couple of old chicken coops, and a shed, and half a dozen crates. A dog was tied in each of the chicken coops, and two of the crates had kittens in them. Jimmy explained that the rest of the animals hadn't arrived yet. There were three of Jimmy's friends sitting in the shed doorway.

“H'm,” said Freddy. “Well, Jimmy, I don't know just what we can do to help make your circus a success, but we'll come see it anyway. What time does the show start?”

Jimmy said two o'clock.

“Well, you go right ahead with your plans,” said Freddy. “We'll be back.”

Jimmy cheered up at this and began to thank Freddy, and Mr. Boomschmidt walked over to the fence, above which the heads of Jack and his gang were visible, shouting: “Oink, oink!” derisively.

“My goodness, boys,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, “you've got it all wrong. Pigs don't say ‘oink.'”

“Do too. Oink, oink!” yelled Jack.

“Dear me, I think you are the funniest people I ever saw,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “Have you heard this pig here say ‘oink'? Of course you haven't. The only persons who have said ‘oink' around here are you and your friends. So if you are right in believing that pigs say ‘oink', then you must be pigs.”