Freddy and the Dragon

by Walter R. Brooks

  “Maybe I could rope him,” said Freddy, touching the rope that was looped over his pommel.

  “No, no, that’s too dangerous,” said Mr. Pomeroy. He emphasized his remarks by taking off his spectacles with one claw and shaking them at Freddy. “You get a rope on him, and he’ll drag Cy all over the meadow. Ruin a lot more good hay, too. You’d better go back and tell Mr. Bean.”

  “If I got the noose around his foot and tripped him, it might work,” Freddy said.

  “What would you do with him then?” Jinx asked; and Freddy said glumly: “I don’t know.”

  Mr. Pomeroy put his spectacles on. “I’ll fly down with you,” he said, and sprang into the air, to light on a fencepost some distance off.

  The bull had been edging closer, trying to overhear the conversation. Now he said: “What are you two little squirts up to, hey? You ain’t goin’ to sick that robin on to me, are you? My land, I’m all over gooseflesh!” And he laughed his big roaring laugh, so that he shook all over.

  “‘Squirts,’ eh?” said Freddy to himself. “That gives me an idea. Jinx,” he said aloud, “watch out.” He had a cap pistol in the holster on one side and a water pistol on the other. The latter held nearly a pint, and he kept it filled with strong perfume. He had found that most people—and animals too—would almost rather be shot than drenched with cheap perfume. He pulled it out, pointed it at the bull, and squeezed.

  Three seconds later he and Jinx were riding for their lives, with the bull thundering a few yards behind them. They had entered the hayfield through a gap in the fence. The gap could be closed by a heavy bar which slid into slots on the fence posts. They had closed this when they came into the field, but as it was only about three feet from the ground, Cy and Bill, who had had some practice in jumping, sailed over it easily. But the bull, who was no jumper, checked; and before he could get his horns under it and work it out, they were over the brook and almost in the barnyard. So the bull went back to the hay.

  Cy and Bill sailed over it easily.

  Freddy didn’t tell Mr. Bean right away about the bull. He was afraid that Mr. Bean would go up there, and he’d get awful mad when he saw the hay all trampled, and then maybe he’d do something foolish, like trying to drive the bull away, or putting a rope through the ring in his nose. That bull wasn’t anybody to monkey with.

  There was a lot of commotion in the barnyard. Hank, the old white horse, had been arrested—or at least he had been taken away by state troopers, who wanted him in Centerboro for questioning. The Beans and the farm animals were pretty upset, but Freddy wasn’t specially worried. Hank’s shoes were about the same size as the ones that had kicked in Mrs. Bingle’s door, but even if they fitted, there would probably be plenty of proof that he hadn’t left the stable that night. Hank didn’t go in much for society and seldom went out in the evening.

  As head of the A.B.I., Mr. Pomeroy employed a large number of operatives. They were mostly birds and smaller animals, and a good many were bumblebees. A bumblebee can blunder around close to people, and listen to conversations, without being specially noticed. Nobody thinks that bumblebees know anything. But that’s where they’re wrong. Bumblebees are smart; they make very good detectives.

  But in spite of maintaining such a big staff, the A.B.I. hadn’t found out much about the bull. Nobody could find out who he belonged to, or where he’d come from. He roamed around the countryside, breaking into barns and knocking down fences to get what he wanted to eat—mostly at night. If dogs chased him, he turned around and charged them, but he never did them any harm, even when he could have. He had cornered one of the Macys—farmers who lived across the shallow valley below the Bean farm—behind the barn. The man had nothing but a stick, and the bull could have tossed and trampled him if he’d wanted to, but he just gave a great bellowing laugh and turned around and trotted off.

  “He thinks it’s a joke to scare people,” Mr. Pomeroy said. “Mostly he’s pretty good-natured. But he was mad today. Good thing he didn’t catch you.”

  “Are there any animals around that he’s friendly with?” Freddy asked. “I just wonder if we can tie him in with all this trouble they’re having in Centerboro.”

  “I’ve heard something about that,” said the robin. “But the town’s out of our territory. We’re strictly a rural force; our job is to keep crime off the Bean farm.”

  “Well, it’s to protect the innocent on the Bean farm too, isn’t it?” said Jinx. “And nearly everybody in Centerboro thinks we’re the ones behind all those robberies. There’s even been talk of lynching Freddy. And that’s why they’ve taken Hank away.” And he told about what had happened in Centerboro.

  “Dear me,” said Mr. Pomeroy, “I had no idea things were as bad as that. We’ll get on to it right away. A horse and a pig, eh? Well, some of the boys have reported seeing this bull talking to a pig up on the back road. A couple of times in the early evening.”

  “They didn’t think it was me, did they—the pig?” Freddy asked.

  “Oh, no,” said the robin. “The description was quite different. This pig wasn’t nearly as—ha, h’m—well, I mean to say, he was—”

  “You mean he wasn’t as fat as Freddy, don’t you?” Jinx asked.

  “I wasn’t putting it that way,” said Mr. Pomeroy with dignity. “I was about to say that he wasn’t as well nourished. He was rangy, tough-looking. We figured he was just a tramp.”

  “If they saw him more than once, he isn’t likely to be a tramp, just passing through. Did they hear what was said?”

  “Weren’t close enough. But they heard the bull’s name. The pig said: ‘Hi, Percy,’ when they met.”

  “Percy!” Freddy exclaimed delightedly. “Oh, boy!”

  “Good, eh?” said Mr. Pomeroy. “He isn’t what I’d call a sensitive type, but I bet he’s sensitive about that. I thought Mrs. P. and I might go up and kid him a little—about that, and the perfumery. Maybe we could get him to leave.”

  “It’s worth trying,” Freddy said. “But don’t forget the Centerboro business. I don’t want to be lynched.”

  “Cheer up, Freddy,” said the cat. “We’ll all come, if you are. And the farm’s going to seem kind of tame to us after all our adventures on the road. A good lynching might liven things up.”

  Mr. Pomeroy looked a little shocked. “I think things will be lively enough without having your friends lynched, Jinx,” he said. And to Freddy: “I’ll get on to it right away. And I’ll warn everybody to watch for Mrs. Peppercorn’s bicycle. A lady’s bicycle, blue with a white stripe, right?”

  “Right,” said Freddy. “Come along, Jinx; let’s go talk to Uncle Ben.”

  CHAPTER 4

  They climbed the stairs to the loft over the stable where Uncle Ben was hard at work on the flying-saucer engine. He nodded and said: “Good trip?” and went on with his work.

  Freddy said: “Yes, but that can wait. There are a couple of things I need advice about.” Uncle Ben nodded, and Freddy went on to tell him about the bull. “We’ve got to drive him away, somehow,” he said. “Do you think if we dug a pit and covered it with brush, the way we did that time for the wildcat—”

  Uncle Ben chuckled. They had caught the wildcat all right, but they had also caught Mr. Bean in the trap. Fortunately, it had all turned out well.

  But then Uncle Ben shook his head. “Better idea,” he said, and began figuring with a pencil on a bit of paper.

  Freddy knew it was no use asking questions. Uncle Ben never said more than two words if he could help it. If he had an idea how to get rid of the bull, Freddy would learn about it in time.

  Finally Uncle Ben folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. “Ride to Centerboro?” he asked, and Freddy said: “Sure.”

  The three went down and got into Uncle Ben’s station wagon. This vehicle didn’t look like much, but Uncle Ben had put an atomic engine into it, and when he just pressed lightly on the accelerator it seemed to gather its wheels under it and bound off down the road like a rab
bit. Half the time it was in the air. It wasn’t very hard on tires.

  The Centerboro road wasn’t very wide; it was winding, and today there was quite a lot of traffic. They had to go slow, and pretty soon even slower, when they got behind a farm truck that was only doing twenty miles an hour. Uncle Ben turned to his passengers and pointed to a button on the dashboard.

  “New,” he said. “For passing.”

  He dropped a little way back of the truck, and then pressed the button. Two stubby wings, or rather fins, snapped out on the sides of the car. Then Uncle Ben stepped on the accelerator, and the car bounded forward and up. It soared right over the truck, landed on the road ahead of it, and then Uncle Ben pressed another button and the fins snapped back in, and they were rolling along the road again.

  “Lot safer, eh?” said Uncle Ben.

  Jinx was clinging to the seat with all four sets of claws. “That’s what you think,” he said crossly. He never did enjoy riding with Uncle Ben.

  “Why, sure it’s safer,” said Freddy. “You try to pass on this narrow road, and you have to pull out into the other lane. And suppose some other car suddenly shows up ahead, coming toward you. Big smash.”

  Jinx sniffed.

  They overtook and passed a number of other cars in the same way before getting into town. They went to the hardware store, and Uncle Ben bought several coils of half-inch rope, which he put in the back of the station wagon. Then they drove to the state police headquarters, to see what had been done with Hank.

  Lieutenant Sparrow wasn’t there, but the man at the desk told them they could go talk to Hank if they wanted to. He was out in the stable where the troopers had kept their mounts, when they still rode horses.

  When would he be released? Freddy wanted to know. The trooper wasn’t sure; it was up to the Lieutenant. So they went out.

  Hank was tied up, but he seemed to be well looked after. The stable was clean, and there was a heap of nice-looking hay in the manger which he was munching on. He looked round and said hello gloomily.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” said Jinx.

  “It’s all right, I suppose,” Hank said. “But ’t ain’t very homey.”

  “Well, it isn’t your home,” said Freddy. “At least, I hope it isn’t going to be. What did they do—give you the third degree?”

  “Took me to look at that old woman’s back door. My hoof was the right size but the shoe was different. Not so heavy and a different pattern. The man said, maybe I changed my shoes before I went out to burgle houses. I said: ‘Look at my hoof, mister. I’ve been wearing these shoes for the past two years. Ain’t had ’em off.’ He looked and kinda grunted. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘maybe so. But I guess we’ll hold you a day or two, anyway.’ Don’t seem as if he knew much about shoes.”

  “They can’t keep you here if they don’t arrest you,” said Freddy. “And you aren’t under arrest.”

  “Well, maybe I better stay anyway. They want to ask me some more questions: ‘Where were you at nine o’clock last Friday night?’ and so on. I already told ’em I was home Friday night, and every other night in the week. You know, Freddy, I don’t hardly ever go out at night. I got this rheumatism in my off-hind leg, and the night air’s bad for it.”

  “Well, if they want to ask you more questions, I suppose you’d better stay another day or so. They’ll only send for you again. Eh, Jinx?”

  “Sure. I know the kind of questions. Are you happy in your home life? Get enough to eat? Do you think that fat pig, Freddy, is a criminal? Why do you think so? Does he steal from Mr. Bean? Does he—”

  “O.K.,” Freddy interrupted. “Come on, Jinx, Uncle Ben has to get back. So long, Hank,” he said. “If they don’t let you go by the day after tomorrow, we’ll come down and get you.”

  In the station wagon they bounded back to the farm, and Uncle Ben took the rope up to his shop. Freddy and Jinx, who had left Cy and Bill saddled in the barn, got on and rode up to see how the perfumed bull was getting on.

  He wasn’t in sight, but in the woods to the west of the Witherspoon fields a great chattering of birds and squirrels was going on. As they rode closer to them they caught sight of the bull, walking restlessly about among the trees. Swooping above him, a number of birds were making remarks: “Lovely, lovely smell!” “Mmm, mm! Doesn’t he smell good!” “Sweet as a flower bed!” And similar remarks, calculated to infuriate the bull, who was completely at their mercy.

  Pretty soon Mr. Pomeroy flew out and lit on Cy’s head. “Well, we drove him out of the hayfield,” he said. “It was Mrs. P.’s idea. We got all our friends to come up. We’ve had a barrel of fun. But we can’t drive him away. He just gets in the thick brush where we can’t go near him. Of course, the squirrels have helped—making nyah-nyah noises, and calling him sissy and fancy pants. He’s pretty mad. But what should we do now, Freddy?”

  “Uncle Ben’s figuring out something. You just keep the bull out of the hay until Uncle Ben’s plan gets working.”

  “What is it?” asked the robin.

  “Gosh, I don’t know. You can’t get anything out of Uncle Ben until he’s ready. But don’t forget that Centerboro stuff. And Mrs. Peppercorn’s bicycle.”

  “I’ve already sent a dozen of my best operatives down there,” said Mr. Pomeroy.

  “Good,” Freddy said. “Keep ’em jumping.”

  He and Jinx were still up there, listening to the birds and giggling at the deep grumblings of the bull, when the station wagon came bounding up. In it were Uncle Ben and Mr. Bean. They came to the gap in the fence and beckoned the animals to come down to them.

  “Where’s the bull?” said Mr. Bean. “Can he see us here?”

  Freddy said he was in the thick brush up among the trees. “I don’t think he can see us.”

  Mr. Bean slid the bar aside so they could ride through, then replaced it. “Follow along,” he said, and climbed back in beside Uncle Ben. They went along the edge of the woods until they came to a place where the trees grew thinner and there was less underbrush. Uncle Ben pointed and stopped the car. He and Mr. Bean got out and pulled out the rope, which Uncle Ben had knotted into a sort of heavy net, about eight feet square. They dragged the net over to two trees, which stood about six feet apart.

  “Now, Freddy,” said Mr. Bean, “s’pose you can go in there and get that bull to chase you out between these two trees?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Freddy. But he could feel his tail coming uncurled, as it always did when he was scared. For suppose the bull could run faster than Cy could? He could lift horse and rider and toss them right over his back. And those horns … Freddy decided not to think about the horns.

  The two men tied light ropes to the corners of the net on one side. Then they threw a rope up over a limb on each of the trees, about eight feet high. They tied these ropes, and now the net hung down, filling all the space between the trees. Then they tied ropes to the lower corners, threw the ends over limbs, and hauled the lower edges up. They held onto these second ropes, and stood each behind his tree, so that the bull wouldn’t see them.

  Freddy saw the plan. “But won’t he notice the net?” he asked.

  “Not when he’s charging,” said Mr. Bean. “His nose will be right close to the ground; he won’t look up. Go in and get him.”

  Freddy shivered. “How about it, Cy?” he asked the pony.

  “What can we lose?” said Cy. “Nothing but a couple of legs.”

  Jinx reined Bill up closer. “Look, Freddy, let me do this job, will you? That’s pretty rough ground in there, and a goat’s more sure-footed than a horse. If Cy stumbles—”

  “Aw, go polish your whiskers, cat!” Cy interrupted. “You don’t think that bull would pay any attention to an insignificant little squeech like you, do you? Why, he wouldn’t even—”

  “That’s enough, Cy,” Freddy cut in. He looked down at Jinx. “That’s very good of you, Jinx—a very handsome offer. But it is I whom Mr. Bean has selected for this mission, and it is I who must carr
y it out, dangerous though it be.” He held his head high and looked off into the distance as he said this. Then he looked down at Jinx with a sad smile and put his fore trotter on the cat’s shoulder. “And if I do not return,” he said, “do not weep for me. Remember only this: I did my duty.”

  “Come on, Freddy,” said Mr. Bean. “Don’t be all day.”

  Freddy looked reproachfully at him, then turned his mount and rode into the woods. He looked almost too noble for words. But his tail was completely uncurled.

  When he got closer to the bull, however, and could see him moving about in the thickest of the underbrush, he began to recover. The time for action had come. It was then that he was always at his best. It was the waiting that got him down.

  He could hear the birds twittering their insults, could see the flash of wings as they swooped down close to the unhappy animal. The squirrels were at it too, trying to drop nuts on his nose; a cheer went up whenever there was a hit. Of course the nuts didn’t hurt, but the bull had never before been attacked like this. He could no more fight them off than a man can fight off a cloud of mosquitoes. He bellowed with rage.

  “Hey, bull,” Freddy shouted. “I’ve got some more perfume for you. Come on out, and let me squirt it on your other side. Boy, you’ll be more popular than ever. Come on, sweetie pie. My, you do smell good!”

  The bull came slowly toward him, smashing through the brush. He lowered his head, pawed the ground, and snorted. Freddy settled himself in the saddle, and felt Cy get set to whirl and dash off.

  “Maybe I can get some ribbons to tie in your hair, too,” said Freddy. “Come on, Percy.”

  Instead of charging, the bull lifted his head. “How did you know my name?” he demanded.

  “You mean your name really is Percy?” Freddy said. “Well, what do you know! I just thought it sort of fitted you. Well well, wait till the birds hear that! Hey, J. J.—” But then the bull charged.