Freddy Goes to the North Pole
Page 15
But Kate was not satisfied. “’Tain’t enough!” she repeated. “Double it! Double it or get out!”
“Oh, very well,” said Santa, reaching for the money.
But at this Kate backed down. “Well,” she said, “perhaps I was a mite hasty. I love them children like the—”
“Like the apple of your eye,” said Santa Claus. “Quite so. And now that that is settled, I wish you a very good evening.”
As he closed the door, he heard Kate shout: “Gimme them bills!” and Pete replied: “‘Those’ would be more correct usage.” And then there was a sound of whacking. Kate was using her broomstick.
They slept by the lake that night, and the next morning, bright and early, they were off again. Pretty soon the woods gave way to farming country, and then larger and larger villages appeared. At noon they whizzed across the long bridge over the Saint Lawrence River so fast that the customs men never even saw them go by, and then they were in the United States again. By four o’clock they were nearly home, and they were all leaning out excitedly and pointing out to each other familiar landmarks.
“Here’s Centerboro,” they shouted, as the snowy road plunged down a hill and between a long double line of big elm-trees that bordered the main street.
Nobody paid any attention to the shrill whistle that was repeated several times as they passed the Town Hall, but a block or two farther on a tall man with a silver star on the breast of his overcoat sprang out into the path of the swiftly approaching sleigh. “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop, I tell ye!”
Santa Claus sawed on the reins and brought the reindeer prancing and snorting to a stop in a smother of flying snow.
“It’s a speed trap,” said Hank. “They catch a lot of autos going too fast in the summer-time, I’ve heard.”
“But they can’t stop Santa Claus!” exclaimed the other animals.
The man, who had a very red face and a little beard that waggled when he talked, came up to the side of the sleigh. “You stop when I tell ye to!” he shouted angrily. “You fellers seem to think ye own the county, so ye do. But I’ll show ye! I arrest ye for breakin’ the speed limit, and ye’re comin’ with me to the Jestice of the Peace.”
“The speed limit is for automobiles,” said Santa Claus. “This isn’t an automobile.”
“Is that so!” replied the constable. “Goin’ to give me an argument, be ye? Come along here all dressed up in a red suit with the outlandishest rig I ever see in my born days, and give me an argument, me, Henry Snedeker, that’s been constable in this town since before you was in long clothes. Well, I arrest ye fer exceedin’ the speed limit, and fer disturbin’ the peace, and fer—”
He stopped suddenly and his mouth fell open, and he began edging away in alarm. He had been standing close to the side of the sleigh, but had paid no attention to its occupants. The animals were all getting angry, and at last the bear leaned over the side and put his nose close to the constable’s face and gave a deep bass growl.
“What ye got in there, animals?” demanded the constable. “A menagerie, eh? A circus! Ye can’t operate a circus in this town without a licence. I arrest ye for operatin’ a circus without a licence, too.”
The anger in his voice was somewhat mixed with fear now, but he still stood his ground, and began lugging an old-fashioned horse-pistol out of his pocket.
“I’ll go to the Justice of the Peace with you,” said Santa Claus,” if you’ll tell me where he is. If you only want to make a speech, I’m going on, for I’m in a hurry.”
“You’ll go on when I tell ye to,” replied Mr. Snedeker. He tried to cock the ancient pistol, but it had rusted so badly that even when he put the butt on the ground and held the barrel in both hands and tried to force back the hammer with his foot, he had no success. And while he was still struggling with it, the bear jumped out of the sleigh, seized him about the waist in his powerful grip, and tossed him in among the other animals, who promptly sat upon him.
Santa Claus laughed heartily. “Now,” he said, “if you’ll tell me where the Justice of the Peace lives, I’ll drive there, and we’ll have this settled.”
“An’ I arrest ye for assault an’ battery,” the muffled voice went on from the bottom of the sleigh, “an’ fer unprovoked attack, an’—”
“The Justice of the Peace is three doors down, on the right,” said Hank. “But why don’t you just let us throw him out in the snow and go on, sir? They’ll probably fine you and delay you half a day.”
“No,” said Santa Claus, “that would be breaking the law. We don’t want to do that. I can fix it all right.” And so he drove on and was presently ringing the Justice’s door-bell.
The door was opened by a little old woman in black, and Santa entered and the animals trooped after him, the bear carrying the still protesting constable.
The Justice of the Peace was a small dried-up little man in black, with steel spectacles pushed up on his forehead. He rose from behind a black-walnut desk where he had been taking a nap. “What’s this—what’s this?” he spluttered as the strangely assorted crowd pushed into the room. “What’s the meaning of this, sir?”
The constable, released by the bear, told his story. “They were going at least fifty miles an hour,” he said.
“We were going at least a hundred,” put in Santa Claus.
“What, what, what?” exclaimed the magistrate. “You admit going at such a dangerous rate of speed?”
“Certainly,” said Santa Claus.
“Twenty-five dollars,” said the magistrate. “Now as to these other charges—assault and battery, obstructing the public highway, operating a menagerie without a licence, illegal entry, arson—”
“Wait a minute,” said the saint. “I haven’t had time to commit all these offences. I’ve only been in your town about three minutes.”
“That will have to be proved,” said the Justice of the Peace. “Your name?”
“Santa Claus.”
The magistrate stared at him. “You are choosing a poor time to joke,” he said severely.
“Perjury and contempt of court,” said the constable.
“Nevertheless, that is my name,” said Santa Claus.
“Well, well,” said the Justice of the Peace, “it’s possible, of course. Let it pass. Somebody else might have that name. Age?”
“Eight hundred years, roughly,” replied the saint.
“Eight hun—Say, look here, mister,” burst out the constable, “you’ll get eight hundred years in jail—‘roughly’ too—if there’s any more of this. Your honour—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said the magistrate testily, “take him off to jail, Henry. Maybe a night in the town cooler will make him see sense.”
“One moment,” said Santa Claus. “I have given you my right name and my right age. I can prove it to you in three minutes.”
The constable and the magistrate looked at each other with raised eyebrows, and the constable winked. There was a silence through which the voice of the little old woman could be heard complaining. “All these nasty animals traipsing through my clean front hall and tracking up the floor with their great muddy feet!”
“All right,” said the Justice of the Peace. “I’ll give you three minutes.”
“Good,” said the saint with a smile. “We’ll take you first, Constable Henry Snedeker. You’re about sixty-five years old. On the 23rd of December fifty-six years ago you wrote a letter to Santa Claus asking for a jack-knife. You got the jack-knife in your stocking, along with two oranges, a jumping-jack, two Jackson balls, and a stick of peppermint candy. Am I right?”
The constable fell back against the wall. “Consarn ye!” he exclaimed in angry amazement, “ye are Santa Claus after all! And to think of all the things ye’ve stuffed in my stocking when I was a little shaver, and I go and arrest ye fer speedin’! Well, sir, I’ll be dosh heckled!”
But the Justice of the Peace was not convinced. “Come, brace up, Henry,” he said. “You know your memory ain’t what
it was. How do you know what you had in your stocking fifty-six years ago? Every boy has had a knife and those other things given him at some time. Your memory’s playing you tricks.”
“No,” said Santa Claus, “Mr. Snedeker’s memory is remarkably clear. Now, your honour, I will refresh yours. Your name is Philemon Prendegast. You’re sixty-eight years old. When you were fourteen, your sister, who let us in and is now standing there in the doorway, was ashamed of you because you still played with dolls. On Christmas Eve 1876 I put in your stocking, as you had requested, a French doll with long yellow—”
“Stop, stop!” shouted the magistrate, jumping to his feet with a very red face. “You’re crazy! Get out of here, all of you! Out, out! Your fine is remitted—”
The constable had doubled up with laughter in a chair. “Dolls!” he roared. “Ho! That’s a good one, that is! Wait till the boys down to the store get hold of that one! Old Squire Prendegast playin’ with—” He choked on a howl of merriment, and the bear had to slap him on the back before he could get his breath back.
The little old lady in black had come forward and bobbed an old-fashioned curtsy to Santa Claus. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said. “To think of all the Christmas Eves I sat up and held my eyelids open with my fingers so I could get a glimpse of you, and now I see you for the first time. You always came after I had dropped off to sleep. But, sir, please don’t say anything about Philemon and the dolls to anybody else. ’Twan’t his fault he played with ’em, and anyway—”
“Anyway it wasn’t any harm,” interrupted Santa Claus. “You’re quite right. I shan’t say anything about it to anybody. And Mr. Snedeker,” he added, turning to the constable, who was wiping his eyes, “I think, if I were you, I wouldn’t say anything about it either. I never threaten, but I know you’re pretty fond of peace and quiet in your home, and it would be too bad if those active little grandchildren of yours should get a lot of drums and whistles and tin horns next Christmas, wouldn’t it?”
The constable looked somewhat crestfallen. “I s’pose ’twould,” he said. “Gosh, there’s little enough happens in this town, and then a good story comes along and I can’t tell it. But I won’t. I promise you, sir.”
So Santa Claus said good-bye to the Prendegasts and Mr. Snedeker, and they went out and got into the sleigh and drove on. And in fifteen minutes the sleigh was the centre of a shouting, happy mob of animals in the Beans’ driveway, and Mr. and Mrs. Bean had shaken hands with Santa Claus and hugged all the animals and kissed the children and patted the reindeer and accepted Santa Claus’s invitation to come up to the north pole and spend next Christmas with him. And Mr. Bean had made a short speech.
It wasn’t a very good speech, for Mr. Bean was not a practised public speaker; indeed, he wasn’t much of a private speaker either, and sometimes a whole day would go by without his having said anything but “Please pass the potatoes,” or something like that. But his speech was very much appreciated. First he thanked Santa Claus for having taken such good care of the animals, who, he said, were the finest lot of animals on any farm, in any county, in any state, in the whole country. There weren’t any words, he said, to express how glad he was to have them back. And they’d brought back with them, he said, the one thing he and Mrs. Bean had always wanted—the two children. Now, he said, they had something to work for and bring up and leave the farm to.
And then he took off his hat and threw it up in the frosty air and gave three cheers for everybody, in which Santa Claus and the children and the animals all joined, and then he lit his pipe and hoisted Everett on his shoulder and stumped off into the house to show the little boy a model of a windmill that he had once carved with his jack-knife. And Mrs. Bean showed Santa Claus into the parlour and gave him yesterday’s Centerboro Gazette to read while she was getting supper ready. And the animals showed the bear his new home, and then all went into the cow-barn for a good long gossip. And everybody was thoroughly and completely happy.
And as there is very little to write about either people or animals when they are thoroughly and completely happy (except to say that they are thoroughly and completely happy), this is the end of the story.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1930 by Walter R. Brooks
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9210-7
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