Freddy the Politician

by Walter R. Brooks

  one night Marcus dressed up

  So when Marcus got up, nobody laughed, and Freddy smiled at him, and Marcus said: “Now, lookit, Freddy; if anybody asks me, what’ll I say is the name of this new republic?”

  “Eh?” said Freddy, and then he said: “My goodness, we forgot that, didn’t we?”

  So then the meeting discussed a name. Jinx wanted to call it Beania, but Freddy didn’t like that because he wanted to write a national anthem, and there wasn’t any rhyme to Beania, except words like “Armenia” and “neurasthenia,” which didn’t sound very patriotic.

  “Well, how about Animalia?” said Georgie. “You can sing:

  We hail ya,

  Animalia!

  Whenever foes assail ya,

  We’ll rally round the dear old flag

  Of glorious Animalia.

  Anyway, there isn’t any rhyme to United States, or to America, in The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  But nobody liked that either.

  “We can have letters,” said Robert. “Like U.S.A. The F.A.R.—First Animal Republic.” And after some discussion that was adopted.

  “Now, ladies and gentlemen,” said Freddy, “if there is no further business before the meeting, we will clear the floor for dancing. But first I want to say that although so far we have only two nominations for president, other nominations can be made at any time before election, which is two weeks from tonight. Or if, on election day, you want to vote for somebody who hasn’t been regularly nominated, you can.”

  Marcus stood up again. “Now—could I vote for myself?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” said Freddy. “Anybody can vote for anybody he wants to. And now, if there are no more questions …”

  IX

  On a warm spring morning, three days later, Freddy sat in the bank. He had a frown on his face and a pencil in his hand. He wasn’t doing anything with the frown, but with the pencil he occasionally jotted something down on a piece of paper. Then he would sigh and, putting down the pencil, pick up a palm-leaf fan and fan himself exhaustedly for a few moments. It was hot in the bank, which had a door but no windows. Opposite Freddy’s head was a crack between two boards which extended all along one wall of the bank. Peeking through it, he could see a group of animals listening to a campaign speech by Jinx, and the sounds of other campaign speeches drifted through the door. The great presidential campaign was in full swing.

  Freddy got up and walked to the door. “Well, here comes Hank, back from the station,” he said after a minute, turning toward Grover and John Quincy, who were talking together in low voices in another corner of the bank. “Well, well; the Beans have really gone at last.”

  “You had better come back and sit down,” said Grover. “It doesn’t look well for an officer of the bank to be loafing in the doorway during business hours.”

  Freddy smiled good-naturedly. “It’s hot in there,” he said. “I don’t see how you stand it.”

  “There’s a nice breeze comes through this crack,” said John Quincy.

  “I’m bigger than you are, and I take a bigger breeze,” said Freddy. “It may keep you cool, but I can just barely feel it on the tip of one ear.—Hi, Hank,” he shouted, “did you get them on the train all right?”

  Hank, pulling an empty buggy behind him, stopped by the wall. “Guess so. Last minute, Mr. Bean remembered he’d forgot his pipe, and wanted to go back for it. But Mrs. Bean said they wouldn’t let him smoke a pipe in them fancy foreign hotels, so he bought some cigars. Last I seen of ’em, they was all leanin’ out of the car window and wavin’ to me. And Mr. Bean with that big cigar. It looks funnier than all get-out on him. Makes me kind of sad, though. Well, guess I’d better get back and get this harness off. Pretty hot for it.” And he went on toward the barn.

  Freddy went back into the bank.

  “Mr. Secretary,” said Grover, “I wish to notify you that there is to be a meeting of the board this afternoon at three, to vote for officers.”

  “Officers!” said Freddy. “The bank has got officers—what do you need to vote for them for?”

  “We have to vote for a secretary,” said John Quincy.

  “But I’m secretary,” said Freddy. “Say, what is this? Are you trying to get me out?”

  “Not at all,” said Grover. “But in view of your lack of interest in the affairs of the bank, we feel we should have another secretary—one who will be here during business hours.”

  Freddy would have been glad enough to get out of the bank, which hadn’t been very much fun, particularly since the arrival of Grover. But he wasn’t going to be thrown out. And he wasn’t going to leave all the things the animals had entrusted the bank with, to say nothing of Mr. Bean’s money, in the care of strangers. At least he said to himself that he wasn’t. But just how he was going to prevent it he didn’t know. He remembered Mrs. Wiggins’s advice about laughing, however, and so instead of getting mad he suddenly burst into a loud roar of laughter.

  He held his sides and laughed and laughed, and he was pleased to see that the woodpeckers looked first startled, then rather worried.

  “What’s so funny?” said John Quincy. “See here, Freddy; you know you’re not a good secretary for the bank. X will be better and he likes the work. And we’re not going to vote you out, you know. You’ll still be an officer.”

  Freddy went right on laughing.

  “Oh, go ahead and laugh, stupid,” said Grover, losing his temper. “Let me tell you, my fine young friend—”

  “Father!” interrupted John Quincy warningly. “Perhaps Freddy has a—well, perhaps he knows some reason why we shouldn’t vote Xie in his place. Perhaps we should hear his side of it.”

  “My side?” said Freddy. “Ha ha! You’ll hear it soon enough. Go ahead and vote me out and see what happens. Boy, it makes me laugh every time I think of it.”

  The woodpeckers looked nervously at each other, and Grover said: “Well, well, what we are doing is being done for the good of the bank. I hope for your own sake that you aren’t planning anything foolish to get even with us.”

  “I’ve got a plan, all right,” said Freddy. “Go ahead and have your old board meeting. If I’m not secretary of the bank any more, I don’t have to stay here, anyway.” And with a final giggle he picked up his pencil and paper and left.

  “That laughing is certainly great stuff,” he said to himself. “Just the same, I wish I did have a plan. But that will have to wait until after election.”

  He walked up to the pigpen, went into his comfortable, untidy study, sat down in the old easy chair in which he had composed so many of his immortal verses, and studied the paper over which he had been frowning in the bank.

  The paper was well covered with figures in Freddy’s careful handwriting. He had used both sides of the sheet and from the appearance he had given the proposition more than a little thought.

  This is what he had written on it:

  Farmers’ Party

  Wiggins for President.

  Cows

  3

  Horses

  2

  Dogs

  2

  Cats

  1

  Pigs

  1

  Mice

  4

  Ducks

  2

  Rabbits

  176

  Skunks

  11

  Bears

  1

  Foxes

  1

  Squirrels

  34

  Chickens (doubtful)

  38

  Owls

  1?

  Chipmunks, mixed animals, incl. field mice

  82

  After he had studied it awhile he added it up, and it came out 346. Then he added it again, and it came out 365. Freddy wasn’t very good at addition.

  “Oh, well,” he said, “that gives you a rough idea.”

  So he took another sheet of paper and wrote:

  Equality Party

  Grover for President
>
  Woodpeckers

  7

  Rats

  21

  Robins

  18

  Sparrows

  42

  Mixed birds

  135

  Weasels and assorted small animals (estimated)

  65

  Then he added these up, and it came out 287 the first time, and 290 the second.

  Then he took a third sheet of paper and wrote:

  365

  – 290

  74

  I don’t know how he got that 4.

  He studied this third paper for a long time, and at last he said to himself: “Well, even if my figures are not quite right, we can’t lose. If Charles and all the chickens vote for Grover, still we will have more votes. Pshaw, Wiggins is elected all right. I guess I’d better get a piece ready for the Centerboro newspaper. Now.”

  So he blew the dust off his typewriter, and wrote:

  WIGGINS WINS

  Cow Elected

  First Animal Republic President

  By an overwhelming majority today the Farmers’ Party of the Bean farm’s Animal Republic carried their candidate to victory over the suave and courtly Grover, the Equality Party’s choice for President. Mrs. Wiggins, after casting her own vote early in the day, remained quietly in her barn, listening to the election returns. When the news of her victory was brought to her, she smiled quietly and said: “I did it all for—”

  Here Freddy stopped and shook his head. “No,” he said, “that’s wrong. That’s what they say when they’ve won a race or something. Let me see, I’ll have to think of something good. “The people have spoken,” she said with quiet dignity. “It only remains for me to—”

  Freddy had to stop again at this point, for the door opened, and John stuck his nose in. “Hi, Freddy. Going to the duel?”

  “Duel?” said Freddy. “What duel?”

  “Grover and old Whibley. Better come along. It ought to be good.”

  “Pooh! There won’t be any duel,” said Freddy. “That was all Grover’s talk.”

  “Sure it was Grover’s talk, but he’s got to back it up by fighting. He wasn’t going to do anything about it, I guess, but a lot of us kidded him about it, and then this morning Jinx was making a speech down by the creek, and he brought it up and said: did we want a president who talked big and made a lot of threats, and then backed down when it came time to fight? And I guess Grover decided he’d lose a lot of votes if he didn’t challenge old Whibley to a duel, so he did.”

  “Gosh!” said Freddy, stuffing his papers into a drawer. “Sure I’m coming. When does it start?”

  “I don’t know. Old Whibley just laughed when John Quincy brought the challenge, and said: well, as long as he was the challenged party, he had a right to select the time and the weapons, and so he said: ‘Beaks and claws at midnight.’ John Quincy said: ‘That isn’t fair. Grover can’t see at night.’ And old Whibley said: ‘That isn’t my fault. We fight then or not at all.’ So then John Quincy went back and told his father, and Grover got mad—I guess he thought old Whibley was afraid—and he said he’d go down this noon and force him to fight. So we’re all going down to see what happens.”

  From all directions the animals, their political differences forgotten, were converging toward the woods. The birds, and such animals as could climb, had got seats on branches which had a good view of the entrance to old Whibley’s nest, high up in an old gnarled beech. Everybody stared at the entrance, although the owl wasn’t visible and Grover had not yet come. Freddy stared until he got a crick in his neck, and then he lay down on his back and looked up that way, which was much easier.

  After some time Grover came flying through the trees, followed by John Quincy and X. Freddy thought he looked very determined, but woodpeckers have a sort of determined look anyway, so it was hard to tell. He certainly gave a very determined rap on old Whibley’s door with his bill.

  “Nothing today,” said a voice, and then a young owl came and looked out. She was a niece of old Whibley’s named Vera, who kept house for him. “Oh, excuse me,” she said. “I thought it was the junk man.”

  “This is no time for cheap jokes,” said Grover. “Tell old Whibley to come out. I have challenged him to a duel and he has got to fight.”

  “Oh,” said Vera, “you’ve come about the duel. But aren’t you early? Uncle was planning to tear you to pieces about midnight. He’s gone to have his claws sharpened. Said he didn’t want to botch the job—no sense to cause needless suffering. One swift stroke—tear the head right off—that’s the kindest thing in the end. That’s what Uncle says.”

  One or two of the listening animals giggled, and Jinx said: “Wow! Is there a doctor in the audience?” But Freddy, because he was lying on his back, saw what none of the others saw—old Whibley sitting on a branch just over Grover’s head.

  “You tell your uncle to come out,” said Grover. “I’m not going to fight him at midnight. I can’t see in the dark as he can, and he knows it.”

  “You won’t need to,” said Vera. “Uncle never misses.”

  “If you won’t tell him to come out,” said Grover angrily, “I’m coming in and pull him out.” And he hopped nearer to the entrance.

  “Are you indeed?” said Vera, and she reached out one large capable claw and grabbed him by the neck and shook him. The feathers flew, and Grover struggled and pecked at her, and John Quincy and X went for her, too. But she was just inside the hole and they couldn’t reach her.

  Are you indeed?

  “Hey, go easy, Vera,” called Jinx, and the other animals began to get worried, for Grover’s head was beginning to waggle.

  And then old Whibley said: “That’ll do, Vera.”

  Every head in the crowd went up, and there was a murmur of surprise. And old Whibley said: “You’ve handled this badly, niece. Don’t want to kill the creature. Thought I could save myself bother by keeping out of sight. Pshaw!”

  He flew down next to Grover, who was saying: “Awk!” and wriggling his neck as if he had a tight collar on. “You see, woodpecker, what chance you’d have in a duel with Vera. Not as strong as me, either. Often given her a good sound spanking when she misbehaved. Eh, niece?”

  “That’s right, Uncle,” said Vera.

  “Well. So you want a duel, eh? Suppose you’d be satisfied if I made an apology?”

  Grover, who still couldn’t speak, nodded.

  “H’m,” said old Whibley. “What’d I say? Said you were a stuffed shirt. Said you talked a lot of balderdash. True, too. Won’t apologize for telling the truth. See here, Grover, you’re smart; no coward, either. Why not stop being a stuffed shirt? Stop talking balderdash. Then I could say: Grover isn’t a stuffed shirt. Grover doesn’t talk balderdash. Eh? That’s the way to settle this. No insult; no duel. Fury! I’m making a speech myself!”

  “I demand satisfaction,” croaked Grover. “I will not be made fun of.”

  “You’ll be made fun of if you’re funny,” said the owl. “By others, if not by me. Can’t fight every animal on the farm. Well, can’t talk all day. All right. I apologize.”

  “You apologize?” said Grover.

  “Certainly. You are a stuffed shirt, and you do talk balderdash, but I apologize for saying so.”

  “But that’s no apology,” said John Quincy.

  “What do you mean, it’s no apology?” said the owl. “Either I apologize or I don’t apologize. If I do, it’s an apology, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Let it go, John Quincy,” said Grover. “We’re not getting anywhere. He doesn’t intend to fight. Very well, Whibley, I accept your apology. But kindly keep away from my meetings in the future.”

  “Certainly shall,” said the owl. “Can’t stand balderdash.”

  Grover, who had started to leave, turned sharply around, but John Quincy said something to him, and he shrugged his wings and the three woodpeckers flew off. Old Whibley closed his eyes.

  The crow
d, much disappointed that there had been no fight, gradually melted away.

  “This business will lose Grover some votes,” said Freddy to John. “Old Whibley made sort of a monkey of him.”

  “I don’t know,” said the fox doubtfully. “Grover wasn’t afraid. It’s a good thing to have a president who isn’t afraid. How’s the election going to go?”

  “It’ll be a walk-over for Wiggins,” said Freddy enthusiastically. “Grover hasn’t a chance, not even if the chickens all go over to him. And I don’t think they will. Charles is mad at us, but Henrietta controls the chicken vote, and she’ll be loyal to the old crowd. And if Charles doesn’t vote the way she tells him to, there’ll be an empty perch in the warm corner of the chicken-coop after election. I heard her tell him that, so I know.”

  “That’s fine,” said John. “I thought you looked worried, and I wondered.”

  “I’m worried about the bank,” said Freddy. “I’d like your advice.” And he told the fox about the board meeting. “If I could get in to that meeting,” he said, “I could keep them from putting me out. Officers have to be elected by a unanimous vote—in fact, everything the bank does has to be agreed to by all the officers. Listen, John; do you suppose you could give me digging lessons? Maybe I could dig down to the board room.”

  “You couldn’t dig into it in a week even if you had steel claws,” said the fox. “You’d need a tunnel nearly three feet across. You’re—excuse me, Freddy—you’re too fat.”