Freddy Rides Again (10 page)

Freddy told them his plan, and they agreed that it was a good one. But Hank said: “I dunno, Freddy: I'm pretty old to go careerin' around the country in the middle of the night. Step in a woodchuck hole, likely, and bust a leg.”

Freddy started to speak, but Charles, always ready on the slightest excuse to deliver an oration, fluttered up on the porch railing.

“My friends,” he said. “You know, I know, we all know that danger threatens our friend and protector, William F. Bean. Does that name mean nothing to you, gentlemen? Are we to stand idly by while that rich and vicious scoundrel, Elihu P. Margarine, brings the ancient and honorable house of Bean crashing down in ruin about our heads? What is a leg, what are a dozen legs, when the honor of Bean is at stake?”

“I ain't got a dozen,” Hank put in. “I only got four.”

“Only four!” Charles exclaimed. “Only four! I have only two, yet how willingly I would sacrifice both for our noble benefactor! Ah, yes, would that I had a dozen, nay, a hundred legs to risk in this desperate venture! My friends, the clarion call to battle has sounded, the—”

“Oh, be quiet!” Henrietta had appeared at the edge of the clearing. “I guess it's a good thing I came up here,” she said as she came forward. “Charles, get down off that railing! And Freddy—you see here: if there's going to be any fighting, I want it distinctly understood that Charles is to have no part in it. You!” she exclaimed, turning upon her husband. “A fine mess you've got yourself into, and the sheriff hunting for you like a common criminal! You know where you'll end up, don't you?—on a platter with a lot of dumplings, that's where!”

“Just a minute, Henrietta,” said Freddy. “In the first place, Charles isn't going with us tonight. And in the second place, what we're doing, we're doing for Mr. Bean.” And he told her the plan.

Since Charles was not in any danger, Henrietta had no further objections. Hank had as usual been greatly moved by Charles' stirring speech, and he said that he guessed he'd be willing to sacrifice a leg if it was for Mr. Bean. “Only I hope it's my left hind one,” he said. “That one's so rheumatic it ain't much use anyway.”

Charles and Henrietta stayed at the house, in case any messages came up from the farm, and the rest of the animals cut down to the back road, and along it until they could see the Schermerhorn farmhouse. There were no lights; the Schermerhorns had gone to bed; but Freddy said that it wasn't quite late enough, so they waited another hour. Then Freddy got up. “O.K.,” he said; “Let's go.” And he swung himself into the saddle.

Jinx leaped on to the sacks that were tied to Bill's back, and Hank ranged alongside.

“All right, Robert,” said Freddy. “You and Georgie know the course we're going to take. Don't get too far ahead. And don't bark; try to bay like hounds.”

“I'm a collie,” said Robert. “I can't sound like a hound.”

“How about you, Georgie?” Freddy asked. “You claim to be part wolfhound; can't you bay?”

“We're quiet when we hunt,” said Georgie. “Silent and sinister, that's the family motto. But I can howl, if that'll help.”

“Both of you better howl some,” said Freddy. “We want to make as much of a disturbance as possible. Go ahead, we're right with you. Yoicks!” he shouted. “Yippee!”

“Orooloooloooooo!” howled Georgie, and he and Robert dashed down the slope towards the Schermerhorn farm, with Bill and Cy and Hank thundering along behind them.

Chapter 9

If it hadn't been a dark night Freddy's scheme would have had small chance of success. Freddy, mounted on Cy, might at some distance have been taken for Billy Margarine, but no one could have seen any resemblance to Mr. and Mrs. Margarine in Jinx, riding goat-back, or the riderless Hank. Nor were Georgie and Robert, in their role of foxhounds, very convincing, either to the eye or the ear.

But as the yelling hunt poured through their gate, the Schermerhorns, roused from their first sleep to run to the window, made out only a troop of dim figures which circled the house twice, trampling flower beds, cutting up the lawn, and kicking over whatever stood in their way, and then galloping off across the fields towards Witherspoons'.

“Good heavens,” said Mrs. Schermerhorn, “I think we've had about enough of these Margarines. Don't they ever sleep? I miss my guess if that crash we heard wasn't that pink soup tureen Louella gave us for a wedding present. I left it out for you to transplant those geraniums into it. If you'd done as I asked you it wouldn't have got broken.”

“Oh, Margarine'll be around in the morning to pay for the damage,” said Mr. Schermerhorn. “I guess we can put up with losing a little sleep for what he'll pay.”

“There isn't any money he could pay would make me put up with losing that tureen,” said Mrs. Schermerhorn. “And if you hadn't shilly-shallied and put off.…” She went on for some time.

In the meantime the hunt swept on towards the Witherspoon farm. It is fun to gallop through the night, yelling at the top of your lungs, and even Hank had forgotten his rheumatism, and snorted and pranced like a colt. Though where he had got the idea that such cries as “Thar she blows!” or “Forward, the light brigade!” were the sort of thing that fox-hunters should shout, nobody could figure out.

Freddy, galloping alongside him, said, “I'm glad you've entered into the spirit of the chase, Hank.”

“Pike's Peak or bust!” shouted Hank. “Yeah, I guess I have. Only what are we chasing?—On to Richmond!” he roared.

Twice around the Witherspoon house they went, then down to Macy's where they drove through the big barn with yells and a series of crashes that brought the entire Macy family out of their beds as if they had been touched off like rockets. Then on to the Halls', where they tore yelling three times around the house like Indians attacking a wagon train.

It was always hard to get Hank started, but once you had him started it was just as hard to stop him again. The Halls were the last call Freddy had planned to make, but Hank would have gone right on through Centerboro, waking up everybody from Mr. Muszkiski to the Reverend Dr. Wintersip. Freddy managed at last to calm him down, although as on the way home they passed Mrs. McMinickle's little house, Hank went up on the porch and banged on the front door with a big hoof. “Get up! Get up!” he shouted. “The British are coming!” Fortunately Mrs. McMinickle was not at home, but her little dog, Prinny, came to the window and barked furiously. “There's one who'll stand off the redcoats if they get funny with him,” said Hank with a grin. But after that he quieted down and went on home, while Freddy rode back to the Grimby house.

Things moved slowly for the next few days, but they moved in Freddy's favor. The farmers supposed of course it was the Margarines with their hounds who had made such a racket, and they waited expectantly for Mr. Margarine to show up with a fist full of crisp bills. When after two days he didn't appear, they began to get mad. And when on the third night the hunt came roaring down and lifted them out of their beds again shortly after midnight, they called up Mr. Margarine and demanded to know what he was going to do about it.

Of course Mr. Margarine denied that he and his hounds had been out on either of the nights in question. But his hat had been found on the Macy porch—and after all, who else kept hounds and chased foxes on horseback all over their fields? They didn't believe him.

Mr. Margarine was no fool. He was pretty sure that Freddy was back of these disturbances. Where he was wrong was in thinking that Mr. Bean was back of Freddy. He went to see the Macys and the Witherspoons and the rest of them and said flatly that he was certain it was Mr. Bean who had led the midnight hunt, and who was trying to discredit him. But they just laughed. Mr. Bean wasn't that kind of man, they said. Freddy now—yes, it could very well be Freddy. And they laughed and said that Freddy had a great sense of fun. Mr. Margarine got madder and madder.

After that he and Billy rode out nearly every night, looking for Freddy, hoping to intercept the hunt. They left the hounds at home, and carried shotguns across their saddles. But Freddy was in no danger, for Old Whibley kept him informed which way they were riding. But though he rode a good deal at night, he didn't lead any more midnight hunts to the different farms, for the farmers had shotguns handy now, too, and would use them.

Late one afternoon the Horrible Twenty came up to the Grimby house. Freddy was sitting on the porch thinking. They squatted around him in a circle and began to chant over and over: “We are the Horrible Twenty. We are the Horrible Twenty. We are the Horrible Twenty.”

Pretty soon Freddy opened his eyes. “All right, all right,” he said irritably. “I know who you are.”

“We are the Horrible Twenty. We are the—”

“Oh, shut up!” Freddy said. “Can't you think of anything else to say?”

Rabbit No. 23 stepped out in front of them and held up his paw, and when they had stopped, he said: “No, we can't. Because you promised to make up something for us, but you never did it.”

“Ah,” said Freddy, “I see. And you're going to keep on repeating that one line until I either go crazy or write you a new chant?”

“Yes!” said all the Horribles together.

“O.K.,” he said. “But there are more than twenty of you here now. Twenty-six, is it?—if you'd only stand still a minute.”

“We are standing still,” said 23. “And there are twenty-five of us now.”

“Well, that won't do! We are the Horrible Twenty-five. Hardly a man is now alive … No, no; can't make anything of that. Let's make it thirty. There'll probably be thirty members soon. Let's see. We are the Horrible Thirty. Wild eyed, ferocious and dirty. That's not bad. Go play tag out there for a while, will you?—I can't write with fifty eyeballs rolling around at me.”

So they went down the steps and played games, and after a little while Freddy came down to them. “How's this?” he asked and recited:

“We are the Horrible Thirty,

Wild-eyed, blood-thirsty and dirty!

Our manners are simply atrocious
—

Impudent, rude and ferocious.

At home, disobedient creatures;

In school, we throw things at teachers.

Punished, we stick out our tongues,

Scream at the top of our lungs
.

Folks we don't like, we attack 'em
,

Out come our knives and we hack 'em.

Even the bravest are nervous

When in the gloom they observe us.

As through the trees we come creeping

Even the boldest start weeping.

Even the calmest will bellow,

Shake like a bowlful of jello.

Oh, how we laugh when they holler!

Sometimes they offer a dollar

Not to be hashed up and fried.

Often we've laughed till we've cried,

Keeping—of course—right on hashing,

Paying no heed to their thrashing.

All we want's enemy hash;

Don't give a hoot for their cash.
”

There was a lot more, but as it was even more bloodthirsty, it is not set down here.

The Horribles liked the chant, and they tramped around the clearing for some time practicing it. Then they decided that they would go down and try it out on Mr. Margarine, but Freddy put a stop to that. “Too dangerous,” he said. “You wait; I know you'd like to help Mr. Bean, and maybe later we can figure out some way. Stick around.”

Freddy went back up on the porch and picked up his guitar. He sang
Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Pigs
, and he sang
The Old Pigs at Home
, and then he struck a minor chord and swung into a very mournful cowboy song of his own composition.

O gimme my boots, and gimme my saddle, For back to the range I'm goin' to skedaddle
.