Freddy and the Space Ship

by Walter R. Brooks

  “Dear, dear,” said Freddy, “very sad end, indeed. Webb, how could you?”

  The spider winked at his wife. “Can’t understand it,” he said. “Don’t know what came over me. Mother, you should have stopped me.”

  “No doubt,” said Mrs. Webb. “I’ll try it next time you’re stalking a fly. Well, Freddy, you see we caught this fellow here, and he was so sticky we almost let him go. All messed up with that fruit cake. I must say, most of these flies aren’t very neat eaters.”

  “Freddy doesn’t care about that, mother,” Mr. Webb said.

  “No. Well, anyhow, we were curious, and so we asked some questions, and when he told us about the fruit cake, we thought we’d better tell you.”

  Freddy said: “I’m glad you did. Mr. Bismuth has been down to see Miss McMinnickle several times. He likes the fruit cake she gives him. So I guess we’d better go up and look over that rock pile. ’Tisn’t a comfortable place to sit, so we can be sure he didn’t just take a piece of cake up there to eat it. He must have done more than that. Let your prisoner go—we’ll just run up and see.”

  It was plain that the rock pile had been disturbed within the last few days. Freddy turned over a stone under which the pressed-down grass was still green, and a small beetle scuttled off. But Mr. Webb jumped down and gave chase, and presently cornered the fugitive against a big flat rock. Freddy could see that they were talking; the beetle, at first rather scared, became presently much excited and waved his feelers and pointed with his forelegs. After a minute Mr. Webb let him go, and came back to Freddy.

  “Funny,” he said; “I can’t make it out. That fellow lives down underneath these rocks, and he says somebody did tumble them all around the other night. But he says that there’s a hole down underneath the pile, and some kind of a big ferocious bug has moved in there. He says when he peeks in at it he can see it glaring at him with one bright red eye.”

  “A bright red eye,” said Freddy thoughtfully. “That necklace of Alice and Emma’s had a ruby clasp. H’m, guess we’d better dig that ferocious bug out.” And he began hastily throwing aside the rocks.

  And sure enough, there in the hole underneath the stones was the pearl necklace with the ruby clasp, and a heap of rings and chains and brooches.

  The Webbs were so delighted that they stood up on their last pair of legs and danced a little dance on Freddy’s nose—until it tickled so unbearably that he made them stop. “Don’t fly off the handle,” he said. “This is a piece of good luck, but Bismuth isn’t in jail yet.” He piled the rocks back, and then hurried down to the house.

  The Webbs were so delighted.

  Mrs. Bean was out on the back porch. “Well, Freddy,” she said, “you’re home again. How’d you leave all the folks on Mars?” And then when he looked embarrassed and began to stammer something: “Now, now,” she said consolingly, “you didn’t suppose you could fool me as easily as all that, did you? That was a good disguise all right, but I’d know your voice anywhere. And when Captain Neptune made the same little squeal that you do when he got excited—well, I was sure.”

  “You mean you knew we never got to Mars?” Freddy asked.

  “Of course. If Cousin Augustus had gone in the space ship, that would have left only three of the mice here. “When I saw four, I knew you’d either got back, or else had never gone.”

  Although Freddy had located the money and the jewelry, he still hadn’t proved that Mr. Bismuth had hidden it. So first he had a conference with Mr. Bean, who called up the state troopers, and then he hunted up Mr. Bismuth. “Look, Mr. Bismuth,” he said, “I know what’s under that rock pile in the corner of the pasture. But those ducks aren’t any special friends of mine, and—well, what’s it worth to you to have me keep my mouth shut?”

  Mr. Bismuth turned pale, but at first he tried to bluff. “Rock pile?” he said. “I don’t know any rock pile. What are you talking about?”

  So Freddy told him. Even then he wouldn’t admit that he had had anything to do with hiding the stuff. “But,” he said, “I see no reason why we should embarrass everybody by digging the stuff up. Money is the root of all evil, they say; and roots should remain decently buried, eh? And after all, ha, ha—what good is jewelry to ducks? No, no, my boy; take a Bismuth’s word for it: better leave the stuff right where it is.”

  He talked for quite a while, and Freddy appeared to be partly convinced, and said—well, he’d think it over.

  But that night the troopers, who were lying in wait behind the stone wall, arrested Mr. Bismuth as he was coming down from the pasture with the jewelry in his pocket. They took him down to the jail in Centerboro, and the sheriff locked him up.

  During the next week, while Mr. Bismuth was awaiting trial, a great many people came up to the Big Woods to have a look at the space ship. As soon as Uncle Ben and Jinx and Georgie came home, and it was understood that they had really been whizzing around in outer space, even though they hadn’t got to Mars, there was great excitement all over the country. All the big papers sent reporters to interview them, and offers for lectures and public appearances on television showered upon them.

  Uncle Ben would have been glad to accept some of these offers, in order to make enough money to buy fuel for another attempt to reach Mars, but of course a man who only talks in sentences two words long isn’t much good on a stage. Freddy was too busy catching up on work in his detective business, and in his newspaper and the bank, to do anything, and Jinx also refused. “No sir,” he said; “you don’t get me up on any platform. Once you start that business you get like Charles—you just can’t stop talking. Me, I’m a doer, not a talker.” And when they asked him what it was he did, he said: “Sleep, mostly.”

  But Charles and Georgie both lectured, although after Georgie’s second appearance he gave it up. He got so excited at the applause that he forgot to talk and just barked at the audience, and they laughed at him and hurt his feelings. But Charles was put under contract by one of the big lecture bureaus, and for the next year was hardly ever seen at the farm at all. He traveled all over the country, mostly by plane, with a secretary and a valet whose job it was to keep his space suit brushed and pressed; and one night he would speak in Buffalo and the next in Cleveland, and so on. It was the first time in his life that he had been able to talk as much as he wanted to. He made a lot of money, too, and most of it he turned back to Uncle Ben to be used in financing the next trip. I think it was pretty generous of him.

  Mrs. Peppercorn also lectured. She wore her space suit and carried her umbrella, and she would have been fully as successful as Charles, but each time when she was about halfway through her lecture she would begin to talk about her poetry. And then she would recite some of it. “So out we flew to the wild blue yonder, only ’tain’t blue, it’s black as thonder.” So it began. And first the people in the back row would get up and tiptoe out, and then the next few rows would leave, not so quietly. Along about then she would notice what was going on, and she would get mad. “Now, you folks, you down in front here anyway, you set right still! Ain’t you got any manners? Now here’s another poem.” But before she got through the first verse the rest of the audience would have risen as one man and stampeded from the hall.

  The only person or animal who ever listened with interest, or even with patience, to Mrs. Peppercorn’s poetry, was Mrs. Wiggins. The cow was still in jail, and was to be tried on the same day as Mr. Bismuth. She hadn’t minded being locked up, for the Centerboro jail was known throughout New York State as being a very happy jail; many criminals considered a stay there as a delightful vacation, and they had to be pushed out when they had served their sentences. Mrs. Wiggins enjoyed it all, and when Mrs. Peppercorn lectured to the prisoners, she was the only one left in the hall at the end of the evening. After that they got quite chummy, and Mrs. Wiggins began writing poetry herself. It was even more terrible than Mrs. Peppercorn’s.

  And at last came the day of the trial.

  CHAPTER

  18


  Although it was raining heavily on the day of the trials, the courtroom was packed to the doors. There were as many people as animals in the audience. For not only did Mrs. Wiggins have many friends in Centerboro who were certain that she had never stolen the purse, but all of Freddy’s friends—and their names, as the Centerboro Guardian put it, were legion—had come to hear him conduct the prosecution in the Bismuth case. Mr. Bismuth had no lawyer; he said he guessed a Bismuth could take care of his own defence, particularly, ha, ha, when he wasn’t guilty. In the case of the State vs. Wiggins, a Mr. Herbert Garble was the prosecuting attorney. Defending Mrs. Wiggins was a formidable team of legal talent, headed by Old Whibley, with John, the fox, and Uncle Solomon, the screech owl, as assistants.

  Mr. Bismuth had demanded a jury trial. Mrs. Wiggins said she didn’t care, they could try her with a jury, or a judge, or they could just turn her loose and save a lot of trouble and expense. But everyone is entitled to a trial by jury if he wants it, so she said at last that as long as she was going to have a trial, she might as well have one with all the fixin’s. She and Mrs. Peppercorn, who visited her every day in the jail, made up verses about it.

  “I don’t have to worry,” she said, “so bring on your jurry.”

  The first hour was devoted to the selection of twelve jurors who would serve on both cases. It is perhaps of interest to list their names. There were six men: Mr. Beller and Mr. Rohr from the music store, Dr. Wintersip, Mr. Metacarpus, the manager of the Busy Bee, Mr. Hinkelbaugh, the butcher, and a young farmer whose name nobody could either spell or pronounce. And there were six animals: Ronald, Charles’ son-in-law, Theodore, the frog, Mac, the wildcat from up in the woods, Peter, the bear, Jerry, Mr. Witherspoon’s horse, and Jinx, who was foreman of the jury.

  The McMinnickle case came first. Miss McMinnickle gave her testimony, and then a state trooper testified that he had found her empty pocketbook in the cow barn. Mr. Bismuth was called as a witness, and he told of the tea party at Miss McMinnickle’s house. Yes, he had seen the pocketbook; it was on the mantelpiece, just under a picture of an old gentleman with long whiskers and a squint.

  “He has not got a squint!” said Miss McMinnickle angrily. “That is my grandfather and he had very beautiful kind brown eyes, and they were not—”

  Bang! went Judge Willey’s gavel. “Your grandfather’s appearance is immaterial, irrelevant, and has nothing to do with the case. He could have been crosseyed and had warts, and it would still have nothing to do with the guilt or innocence of the prisoner. Kindly refrain from further comment, madam.”

  But Miss McMinnickle’s dander was up. “I’ll comment if I feel like it,” she said. “I’m certainly not going to sit here and hear people make fun of my grandfather.”

  “Nobody’s making fun of him,” said the judge. “He was an estimable gentleman. I knew him well, and you are wrong about the squint. He did have one, though it was a slight one and only noticeable in a bright light.”

  “Your Honor,” said Old Whibley, “will you kindly set me straight on a minor point? I am a trifle confused whether Mrs. Wiggins or Miss McMinnickle’s grandfather is the defendant in this case. As attorney for the defence, am I trying to clear Mrs. Wiggins of the charge of theft, or Miss McMinnickle’s grandfather of the charge of squinting? I shall be grateful for light on this point.”

  “I think we have all strayed a little from the argument,” said Judge Willey. “Mr. Garble will resume the examination of the witness.” So Mr. Bismuth went on with his testimony. And now he made a statement which was very damaging indeed to Mrs. Wiggins. He said that as they were leaving Miss McMinnickle’s house, he saw Mrs. Wiggins reach up and take the pocketbook from the mantelpiece when her hostess was not looking.

  Then Mr. Garble sat down and Old Whibley flew over and perched on the corner of the witness box and started his cross-examination.

  “Mr. Bismuth,” he said, “kindly cast your mind back to the afternoon in question, when you took tea with Miss McMinnickle. You stated, I believe, that you saw the pocketbook on the mantelpiece.”

  “I did,” said Mr. Bismuth.

  “You said that it was a square brown pocketbook, somewhat worn at the edges?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that it had a brass clasp?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was lined inside with red leather?”

  “No, sir; the lining was brown clo—” Mr. Bismuth stopped short. “At least it was my impression that it was lined with brown cloth. That would be the most likely lining for such a pocketbook, would it not? Of course, it may have been red. Since I did not see the lining—”

  “You can’t have it both ways,” said the owl testily. “Either it was red or brown. Take your choice—which was it?”

  But Mr. Bismuth had recovered himself. “I am sorry; I don’t know. Even a Bismuth—ha-ha!—can’t see the inside of a closed pocketbook.”

  “You did not open the pocketbook, then?”

  “What do you mean—‘then’?” Mr. Bismuth demanded. “Not then or at any other time.”

  “Quite so,” said Whibley. “Then of course you did not notice that it contained the one hundred and eighty-three dollars which Miss McMinnickle claims was stolen.”

  “A hundred and eighty-three!” Mr. Bismuth exclaimed. “There wasn’t any hundred and eighty-three; there was only—” He stopped again, and Mrs. Bismuth, who was sitting in the front row, crying quietly, said in a horrified voice: “Oh, pa! Oh, be careful!”

  “Now Mr. Bismuth,” said Whibley, “you stated, I believe, that you saw Mrs. Wiggins reach up and take the pocketbook from the mantel as you were leaving. Is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Now think carefully. Which hand did she take it with?”

  Mr. Bismuth said confidently, and without hesitating a moment: “The right hand.”

  “Quite so,” said the owl. “You would say that she grasped it firmly with her fingers, would you not?”

  “Yes, sir. I—” He stopped abruptly. Mrs. Bismuth was trying frantically to attract his attention, shaking her head and putting a finger to her lips. He stared at her for a second, but before he could say anything, Whibley pounced.

  “Will you kindly explain to the jury how a cow could grasp anything with her fingers? Are you aware, sir, that a cow has hoofs?”

  “Are you aware, sir, that a cow has hoofs?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Bismuth stammered. “I misspoke myself. It was the impression I got, seeing her reach for the pocketbook, and—”

  Whibley’s deep voice interrupted him. “I suggest, Bismuth,” he said, “that you did indeed see fingers seize the pocketbook. But they were not the non-existent fingers of a cow. They were your own thieving fingers! I suggest,” the owl said, “that in order to escape the due penalty for your crime, you are attempting to throw the blame on my client, an upright and honest cow, against whom not the faintest breath of suspicion has ever blown. A truly dastardly act!”

  “Oh, pa!” Mrs. Bismuth wailed. “Oh, children, your honored pa is sunk!” And all the Bismuths burst into loud sobs and had to be led from the courtroom.

  Then Old Whibley addressed the jury. He spoke shortly and to the point. Mr. Bismuth had plainly lied, he said, in order to throw the blame on Mrs. Wiggins. He asked for a verdict of not guilty. The jury filed out, and in five minutes came back. The verdict was “Not guilty.”

  Then the jury rose and gave Mrs. Wiggins three cheers, and the audience in the courtroom threw up hats and pounded one another on the back and yelled. For Mrs. Wiggins was indeed popular in Centerboro. And Judge Willey just looked down at them and smiled and didn’t bang his gavel once.

  Outside, on the courthouse steps, Mrs. Wiggins paused, for a large crowd had gathered to cheer her; and there were cries of: “Speech! Speech!”

  “Land sakes, I can’t make a speech,” she said. “Tell you what: I’ll recite a poem I composed while in jail.” And she began.

  “Although in jail in Cent
erboro,

  I do not fret or stew or worro.

  And confidently I confront

  The judge, because I’m innosunt.

  Tho I’m a cow, I am no coward

  I have not flinched when thunder rowered.

  When lightning flashed I’ve merely giggled

  Like one whose funnybone is tiggled.

  And I shall never give up hoping

  That soon the jail front door will oping

  And I’ll once more enjoy my freedom

  On Bean’s green fields. When last I seed ’em

  They were a fair and lovely vision

  And so for my return I’m wishun.

  I hope that Bismuth will get his’n

  And spend a good long time in prison.”

  The cheering which had greeted the first verses became louder, and as she tried to go on it was almost continuous, drowning her out completely. She hesitated for a minute or two, then realizing the impossibility of being heard, went back into the courthouse.

  Jinx dug Freddy in the ribs. “That’s a poke in the eye for old mother Peppercorn, eh? Her only poetry pupil, and the crowd just stands there and yells so it won’t have to hear the stuff.”

  Freddy said with a grin: “I understand the Centerboro Rotary

  Has asked her to come and talk about po’tery.”

  “Yeah,” said the cat. “Well, don’t let it get your goatery.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  The trial of the State vs. Ed Bismuth opened with Alice and Emma on the witness stand. In their flat quacking voices they told about their jewelry, how it was hidden in the pond, and how when the pond went dry they worried that it might be stolen. The jewels were held up and a long “Ah!” of admiration and wonder went through the audience as the flashing brilliance of precious gems lit the gloomy courtroom. Then Freddy told how he had seen Mr. Bismuth digging in the pond, and of the information given by the fly which had led to the rock pile and the digging up of the jewels. After which the trooper told of capturing Mr. Bismuth and finding the jewels in his pocket.