Freddy Goes to the North Pole

by Walter R. Brooks

  “There’s a man and a woman coming across the lake in a boat,” said the crow. “The man’s got a gun. We’ve got to get out of here quick!”

  “We’re not going without that child,” said Mrs. Wiggins stoutly. “She can’t stay here, to be mistreated by those scoundrels. Tying her up like that! And you ought to see the bruises on her arms where they’ve struck her.”

  “Well, go get her, then,” said Ferdinand irritably—for the little girl had stayed in the house—“Though what you want with her on a rescue party I don’t know. She’ll just be a hindrance.”

  “We’ve just rescued her,” said Uncle William. “We can’t leave her to be beaten and tied up and mistreated any more. I agree with Mrs. Wiggins.”

  “Well, we can’t rescue everybody in the north woods,” said the crow, “or we’ll never find our friends. But have it your own way. Only hurry.”

  So Mrs. Wiggins went into the house again. The little girl was not in the kitchen, but there were voices upstairs, and, listening, she heard a boy’s voice say: “That’s all foolishness. A cow couldn’t come in the house and—” “But she did,” the little girl interrupted. “She brought some mice and they chewed the rope apart, and they’re coming to get you loose too, and then we’ll go into the woods with them and live on berries and nuts and never be tied up any more.”

  “Good gracious me!” said Mrs. Wiggins to herself. “There’s another of them! What ever will Ferdinand say to that! Well, it can’t be helped. He’s only a crow, anyway.” And she went through into the front hall and started up the stairs.

  The stairs were very narrow, so that she almost got stuck where they turned going up, and they creaked and cracked ominously, but she climbed on and presently found herself in a room with a big bay window, and in it were the little girl and a boy a few years older, who was tied up with a long rope to the foot of the bed.

  Mrs. Wiggins didn’t waste time. She grabbed the rope with her teeth and pulled, and the bed—which was a very handsome old colonial piece, but rather rickety—fell apart with a clatter. The little girl wanted to hug her again, but all the animals downstairs were shouting: “Hurry! Hurry!” so she pushed them through the door and, as they hurried downstairs, started to follow them. Half-way down she stuck. She pushed and heaved and panted and grunted, but only succeeded in wedging herself more firmly between wall and banisters. All the other animals had left and run off into the woods with the children to hide from the man and woman, who had pulled their boat up on the beach and were coming towards the house. Only Ferdinand had remained behind, and he was hopping about at the foot of the stairs, almost wild with exasperation, and cawing angrily at her: “Shove, can’t you? Oh, I might have known it! I might have known better than to bring a cow on this expedition! Darn you, why don’t you shove?”

  “I am shoving!” panted Mrs. Wiggins. “But it’s no use. Hurry, Ferdinand, or you’ll be caught too. I hear them coming up the path.”

  With a caw of disgust Ferdinand hopped towards the door. He was only just in time, for as he spread his wings to take flight from the door-step, the woman was just coming up on the porch with the man close behind her. She jumped as the crow swished by her face, and the man exclaimed: “Well, the nerve of that crow!” and threw his gun up to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. Bang! But he had been too startled to aim carefully and he missed.

  Inside the house Mrs. Wiggins was very much afraid. And when she was afraid, she was afraid all over. She shook and trembled so that the banisters rattled.

  “What’s that noise?” said the woman.

  “I expect it’s Everett,” the man replied. “Tryin’ to get loose from the bed.”

  A vindictive look came over the woman’s face, and she seized a broom that stood by the door. “I’ll learn him!” she shouted. “I’ll learn him to—”

  “‘Teach,’ sister,” interrupted the man. “You ‘learn’ to do things, but you ‘teach ’ other people to—Ouch!” he broke off, for she had struck him angrily over the head with the broomstick.

  “Teach or learn,” she yelled, “I’ll fix him! I’ll tan that white skin of his’n!”

  “‘His,’ sister,” corrected the man as he rubbed his head, but she had dashed into the house.

  She was so blind with rage as she ran up the stairs that she didn’t see Mrs. Wiggins until she bumped into her. Then she backed down a couple of steps and stared until it seemed to the cow as if her eyes would jump right out of her head and roll downstairs like marbles if she opened them any wider. And then with a yell of rage and fear—for of course it was rather surprising to find a cow on her front stairs—she swung up the broomstick and began beating Mrs. Wiggins over the head with it.

  In her effort to escape the flying broom Mrs. Wiggins did just what she should have done before—she backed up—and at once found that she wasn’t stuck any longer. She backed clumsily up the stairs with her eyes shut and her horns lowered to protect herself as well as she could, and backed into the room where the little boy had been tied, and managed to get the door shut before the woman could get in. Then she sat down against the door, so it couldn’t be pushed open, and heaved a deep sigh. “Safe for a minute anyway,” she said to herself. “My, what an awful woman!”

  The woman pushed against the door for a while; then she ran downstairs and got her brother and they both pushed. But even the strongest brother and sister can’t push open a door if a cow wants to keep it shut. So pretty soon they went back downstairs and evidently discovered that the children had escaped, for from the big bay window—which was really the nicest thing about their house and had an excellent view of the lake—the cow could see them walking about the clearing calling: “Ella! Everett! Where are you, children dear?” and promising all sorts of good things for supper if they’d only come back. “But of course,” said Mrs. Wiggins to herself, “Ella and Everett know perfectly well what they’ll get for supper if they really do come back. Broomstick pudding—that’s what they’ll get. Well, well! And how ever am I to get out of this mess, I’d like to know.”

  CHAPTER VI

  THREE JOIN THE PARTY

  The man and woman—as the animals found out later—were brother and sister, and in this little house in the clearing they had been born, and in it they had lived ever since. They had very little money. They ate what they raised in the scraggly garden, and sometimes the man made a little money by acting as guide to a party of hunters from the city. The man’s name was Pete, and the woman’s name was Kate. Kate had never gone to school, but Pete’s father had sent him to school for a year in the nearest village, and that was why Pete was always correcting Kate’s grammar. He was very fond of grammar, and he had a book with all the grammatical rules in it that he had kept from his schooldays, and every night after supper he would sit down at the table with a pencil and a piece of wrapping paper and would parse sentences he found in an old newspaper. He probably knew more about syntax than anybody else in the United States.

  He was always correcting Kate’s grammar, which was really pretty bad, but Kate didn’t like it. She thought he was showing off and being superior—which he was—and it made her mad. She would have beaten him with the broomstick when she was mad, for she was stronger than he was, but after she had beaten him, his bones ached so that he had to go to bed and couldn’t work in the garden, and she had to wait on him and do the weeding and hoeing herself. So, as she had to beat somebody when she got mad, she beat the children.

  The children were not their children. Their mother was Kate’s sister. When she died, Kate took the children. She wanted them because she thought she could make them work for her. Pete wanted them too. They were somebody for him to teach grammar to. So the children, small as they were, had to work and learn grammar all day long. When they were good, they were spanked; and when they were bad, they were beaten. They had tried to run away several times, and that was why Kate had tied them up. She always tied them up when both she and Pete were away from the house at the same time. I
f the animals hadn’t come along, they would probably still be living in the little house in the clearing, working and learning grammar and being spanked when they were good, and beaten when they were bad.

  Of course the animals didn’t learn all this until much later. But they had seen that the children were unhappy and ill-treated, and they were agreed that they must be helped to escape. Meanwhile Mrs. Wiggins must be rescued.

  They had taken the children back into a dense thicket of spruce some distance from the clearing. Kate and Pete were still calling in honey-sweet tones: “Come, Everett! Come, Ella, darling! Supper’s on the table, dear little ones!” While they held their council of war, the children—who of course didn’t know what was being said—sat contentedly on Uncle William’s back and giggled at the mice, who were trying to amuse them by dancing on their hind legs between Uncle William’s ears. Ferdinand had reported that Mrs. Wiggins was back in the upstairs room with the big window and it wasn’t long before they had thought up a plan for setting her free. Bill galloped off to the other side of the lake. When he got there, he came out on the shore and danced round on his hind legs until Pete caught sight of him. Bill was about the same size as Everett, and as Pete couldn’t see him very clearly from that distance, he thought he was the little boy. So he jumped into the boat and started rowing across after him. Kate wanted to go too, but Pete said: “You stay and look after the cow. She’s worth more to us than the children.”

  “But she can’t get away,” shouted Kate. “And those children have got a good lickin’ comin’ to them. Wait till I lay my hands on that there Everett!”

  “How often must I tell you,” said Pete wearily, pausing in his rowing,” not to say ‘that there’?”

  He was too far away to be hit with the broomstick Kate still had in her hand, so she picked up a stone and threw it at him, as he began pulling on the oars again. But she was a bad shot,—so bad a shot indeed, that the stone flew backward over her shoulder and crashed through the big bay window in the upper room and hit Mrs. Wiggins on the left horn.

  The cow jumped and let out a bellow of surprise at this unexpected attack; then she looked up and saw Ferdinand perched on the window-sill. At first she thought he had thrown the stone and she started to give him a piece of her mind, and it took some time for him to persuade her that he hadn’t done it. Then he said: “We’re going to rescue you. But first you have to knock all the glass out of that window with your horns.”

  “What’s that for?” exclaimed Mrs. Wiggins. “I can’t jump out of this—”

  “Don’t ask questions,” snapped the crow angrily. “Do as you’re told.”

  So Mrs. Wiggins did as she was told as hard as she could, and pretty soon all the glass was out of the window.

  Meanwhile Kate had heard the crash of smashing window-panes and came rushing up towards the house, broomstick in hand. But while she had been arguing with Pete down on the beach, Uncle William and Jack and Cecil had sneaked into the house through the kitchen door, and they were busy pulling the feather beds and pillows and mattresses off the upstairs bedsteads and throwing them out the big window, so there would be a soft pile of things for Mrs. Wiggins to jump out on. They had worked so fast that by the time Kate reached the head of the stairs, everything was all ready, and Uncle William could hold the door so she couldn’t get in.

  But Mrs. Wiggins didn’t want to jump. She got her forefeet on the sill and looked down and shuddered. “Oh my!” she groaned. “I can’t do it! It makes me dizzy just to look.” And she put one hoof in front of her eyes.

  Kate was banging steadily on the door with her broom-handle, and Ferdinand let out a caw of disgust. But Uncle William shook his head. “No use arguing,” he said in a low voice. “All ready, Cecil?”

  The porcupine nodded.

  Uncle William went over and stood beside the cow. “’Tisn’t much of a jump, really,” he said. “Lean ’way out and look down. Like this, see? Why, you could almost climb down! See that window-ledge under us?” And as Mrs. Wiggins leaned out farther, he said: “All right, Cecil,” and the porcupine jumped on the cow’s back. With a roar of pain and surprise, Mrs. Wiggins leaped through the window and landed on her back on the pile of mattresses, with all four legs in the air.

  You never can tell how anything is going to strike a cow. All the animals thought she’d be very mad. But when she had scrambled to her feet and shaken herself and found that she was safe and sound and not really hurt at all, she laughed and laughed and laughed. And when Cecil and Uncle William and Jack jumped out after her, she laughed so loud that you could hear her for six miles. She made so much noise that she frightened even Kate, who stopped banging on the door, although all she had to do now was turn the knob and walk in.

  But Kate didn’t stay frightened very long. She hurried downstairs and got outside just as the animals were making off towards the woods, with the feather beds piled on Mrs. Wiggins’s back. Ferdinand had insisted on taking them. They’d need them, he said, in the Far North.

  “Ha!” snorted Mrs. Wiggins as, at a warning caw from the crow, she looked round to see Kate running towards her, broomstick swinging threateningly. “I’ve had about enough of this!” And she turned round to face the enemy, lowered her horns, and pawed the ground angrily. The feather beds fell off her back, and the other animals scuttled out of the way. And then as Kate came closer, she charged.

  The next thing Kate knew she was hanging in the fork of a tree about twelve feet above the ground, and the animals were disappearing into the thick woods. She shouted and called for Pete to come and help her down, but Pete was still hunting for the children on the other side of the lake. There was nothing for her to do but wait until he came back. So she made herself as comfortable as she could and tried to pass the time by inventing new punishments for the children. She had just thought up a new and more painful method of spanking and was just beginning to enjoy herself when a big black dog galloped up, stopped under her tree, and began to bark.

  The dog was Jack, whom the animals had sent back as rear-guard to cover their retreat with the children. But Kate didn’t know this, and as she hadn’t noticed Jack particularly when the animals had run away from the house, she thought he was just a stray dog. At first his barking and jumping and tail-wagging annoyed her. Kate was one of those unfortunate persons who almost never feel anything but annoyance. When things happened, things that would please or excite or interest you or me, Kate was just annoyed. So she was annoyed now at Jack and shook her fist at him and called him names. But it’s not much fun to call names or shake fists at people who don’t pay any attention to it, and Jack didn’t pay any attention, but sat down under the tree and looked up and smiled pleasantly and wagged his tail. So Kate stopped. And pretty soon she said: “Oh dear, I wish Pete would hurry up.”

  At that Jack jumped up and ran down to the beach and barked and barked, and pretty soon Pete heard him, and as he hadn’t been able to find any trace of the children, he got into the boat and rowed back to see what was going on. Jack led him to the tree, and Pete got a ladder and helped Kate down.

  As soon as her feet touched the ground, she got down on her knees beside Jack and hugged him and petted him. “Nice doggy,” she said. “Good doggy. Ain’t he a nice doggy, Pete? Why, he understands everything I say! And ain’t he handsome? I never seen a handsomer dog.”

  Kate had never in her life said anything nice to anybody before, much less petted anybody, and Pete was so amazed that his jaw fell open and he put his hands to his head and grabbed two large handfuls of hair and pulled them right out, which was his way of expressing amazement. He even forgot to correct her grammar. But Kate took Jack back to the house and gave him a leg of venison and two roast partridges and a big dish of potatoes and gravy. In fact, she gave him everything there was in the ice-box, so that all Pete got for supper that night was four ginger-snaps and a bowl of corn flakes with a little sugar on them.

  But after supper she said: “Pete, we got to get them children b
ack.”

  Pete had his grammar open and was reading the “Rules Governing the Use of the Subjunctive.” He held the book in one hand while the fingers of the other felt round the inside of the bowl to pick out the last crumbs of corn flakes. “Those,” he said absently, and went on reading.

  Kate pulled the book away from him. “Listen to me,” she said. “We got to follow them children. Tomorrow’ll be too late.”

  “We can’t follow them tonight,” said Pete. “We can’t see the trail.”

  “We don’t need to see it,” she replied. “What’s this dog for, I’d like to know? Let him smell one of Everett’s shoes; he’ll follow ’em all right.”

  “H’m, that’s an idea,” said Pete. “They can’t have got far. And maybe we can find the cow, too.”

  “We’ve got to find all of ’em,” said Kate. “With the children to do the work, and the cow to give milk and cream and butter, we’ll be settin’ pretty. But we’ll set mighty uncomfortable if we don’t find ’em.”

  “Sit,” said Pete. But the idea of having a little milk on his corn flakes occasionally was pleasant, so he got up and lit a lantern while Kate went after one of Everett’s shoes.

  As soon as Jack had smelt the shoe, he started off, nose to ground, like a bloodhound. Kate and Pete were delighted. They wouldn’t have been so happy if they had known that they were being led in exactly the opposite direction from the one the children had taken. Jack had intended to make the chase as difficult as possible for them—to lead them through swamps and briers and up steep hills; but he was kind-hearted, like most dogs, and after they had fed him and treated him so well, he couldn’t bear to be meaner than he had to. So after they had followed him steadily for two hours, he decided to put an end to the game and get back to his friends.

  They were going along the side of a hill when he noticed by the light of Pete’s lantern a heap of big boulders and under them a hole that might have been the mouth of a cave. He gave a sharp yelp, as if the scent was getting very hot, and dashed off towards the opening; then he stopped a yard or two short of it, barking short eager barks, as if he knew the children were inside.