“I don’t think that’s very fair,” said Freddy, “but I want that money, so I’ll do it.”
“No fair biting,” said Mr. Golcher, and grabbed Freddy around the neck.
Freddy’s legs were too short to be of any use in a wrestling match, and he couldn’t do much to put Mr. Golcher down. About all he could do was to struggle out of the different holds that Mr. Golcher got on him, and keep from being put down himself. They thrashed and rolled and kicked, and Freddy began to pick up hope, for every time he felt himself being forced down on his back, something strange seemed to happen to Mr. Golcher. He seemed to slip or trip over the huge pile of blankets that took up so much of the basket, and Freddy was able to pull free. And then suddenly Mr. Golcher seemed to have a convulsion, and he fell on his back and lay there with Freddy on top of him.
“I win,” panted Freddy, and got up. But Mr. Golcher lay still.
“Oh, goodness,” said Freddy, “I hope I haven’t killed him!” And then he looked more closely and saw that an enormous paw was resting on Mr. Golcher’s chest. And the paw was attached to a huge forearm covered with tawny fur, that came out from under the blankets. “Leo!” he exclaimed.
“Leo!” he exclaimed.
The blankets heaved, and the lion’s head came out. “Congratulations, old boy,” it said. “That was a great fight you put up.” He took his paw off Mr. Golcher’s chest. “Get up, mister,” he said, “and give this boy his money.” And as Mr. Golcher slowly opened his eyes, the lion bared his teeth and gave a rumbling growl that made the basket vibrate.
There was a gurgling noise in Mr. Golcher’s throat, and his eyes kept on opening until they were twice as wide open as usual, and his mouth came open at the same time, and all at once a big yell came out of it, and he leaped up and vaulted right over the edge of the basket. And as the balloon, relieved of his weight, shot up into the air, they looked down and saw him slipping and slithering to earth through the branches of a small tree which had fortunately broken his fall.
“Oh, Leo! He’s hurt,” exclaimed Freddy.
“That’s cherry juice on his face, not blood,” said Leo. “That’s a cherry tree.”
“Yes, and that bulge in his back pocket is Mr. Bean’s two hundred dollars,” said Freddy. “Not that I couldn’t have taken it, anyway, for I didn’t lick him, and I didn’t jump. Leo, you oughtn’t to have interfered.”
“Well, dye my hair!” said the lion. “Is that the thanks I get for spending two hours under a pile of hot blankets on a day when it’s ninety in the shade? You carry your honesty too far, pal. That money doesn’t belong to Golcher, and any way we can get it back to its rightful owner is an honest way.”
“Maybe you’re right. And I’ve got an idea, Leo. See what you think of it.—Hey, what’s the matter?” For Leo had leaned his head against the side of the basket and closed his eyes.
“Feel queer,” muttered the lion, waving a feeble paw. “Awful queer. Might have been—baked beans I had for supper last night. Ugh, mustn’t think of that. Let me down out of here.”
“Maybe you’re a little seasick.” Freddy saw that they had passed over the trees and were drifting across a wide hay field. He pulled the valve cord, and in a moment they began slowly to go down. A few minutes later they stepped out of the basket, and having let most of the gas out of the balloon, so that the half-collapsed bag rested like a giant mushroom on the ground, they started back towards the circus.
But they had taken only a few steps when Freddy turned around. “I forgot the Webbs,” he said. So he went back and got the spiders, but when he rejoined Leo, the lion was stretched out flat on the ground.
“Leave me, my friend,” moaned Leo tragically. “There is nothing you can do for me now. Tell Mr. Boomschmidt: just a small tomb—nothing expensive or ostentatious. With a few words carved on it. Perhaps you would write a suitable epitaph, Freddy. Just some modest and unassuming sentiment—”
“Nonsense,” said Freddy briskly. “You aren’t going to die, Leo.”
“You think not?” murmured Leo. “You take from me my last hope.”
Freddy looked at him and grinned. “H’m,” he said thoughtfully; “perhaps I am wrong. You look pretty bad. Of course, dying from seasickness—well, it’s sort of ridiculous, sort of like being run down by a baby carriage. But don’t worry. I won’t let anybody laugh, or say slighting things. I’ll stand up for—”
“Funny, eh?” Leo jumped to his feet. “Just let ’em try laughing, that’s all!” He glared ferociously.
“Come on,” said Freddy. “I want to try my plan.”
Chapter 15
Although the balloon ascension had been rather a fizzle, it had entertained the crowd, Mr. Boomschmidt said, and so he paid Mr. Golcher the two hundred dollars agreed on. When Leo and Freddy got back to the circus, Mr. Golcher arranged at once to have a truck go out and bring in the balloon. “And then,” he said, “Golcher is leaving this part of the country for good. And the next time Golcher gets chummy with a pig, the pig’ll be on a platter, and Golcher’ll have his napkin tucked under his chin.”
Freddy thought this remark in rather bad taste, but he only said: “Well, we might finish our wrestling match first, Mr. Golcher.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Golcher; “so you admit you didn’t win, eh?”
“Of course I didn’t. I didn’t know Leo was there. My goodness, I didn’t need Leo. I could win without his help.”
“You and a couple of hippopotamuses, maybe,” said Mr. Golcher.
“You and me in a ring together, and no lions or any other animals anywhere around, and Mr. Boomschmidt as referee. How about it?”
“My gracious,” put in Mr. Boomschmidt, “what a show that would be! Eh, Leo? Wrestling match between a man and a pig; best two out of three falls and no holds barred. Oh, oh, how that would pack ’em in!”
Mr. Golcher became interested. “You’d pay for that, Boomschmidt?”
Mr. Boomschmidt said he’d pay a hundred dollars.
“All of it to go to the winner,” said Mr. Golcher quickly.
“That’s all right with me,” said Freddy. “But what I’m wrestling you for, Mr. Golcher, is Mr. Bean’s two hundred dollars. If I win, you hand it over.”
“Yeah,” said Mr. Golcher, “and if I win, what do you hand over?”
“Why should he hand over anything, for goodness’ sake?” demanded Mr. Boomschmidt. “That two hundred—”
“Wait a minute, chief,” put in Leo. “No use arguing with a crook. If—”
“Who’s a crook?” demanded Mr. Golcher.
“You are,” said Leo, “and what are you going to do about it?” And he held up one forepaw and examined his three-inch claws thoughtfully.
“I—er … well, I’m not going to do anything, I guess,” said Mr. Golcher lamely.
“O.K. Then, as I say: no use arguing with a crook. As I see it, Freddy will have to put up something, or Golcher won’t play. What do you say, Freddy?”
“I haven’t got anything to put up.”
“Then we’ll just wrestle for the hundred dollars,” said Mr. Golcher.
But Freddy said no, they’d wrestle on his terms or not at all.
Mr. Golcher argued, but in the end he agreed. He was sure he could win, and that meant another hundred dollars in his pocket. He didn’t think there was the slightest chance of his having to give up Mr. Bean’s money.
So it was arranged that the match should be put on right after the big show, which was about to begin. Freddy went into Leo’s cage to rest up, and while Mr. Boomschmidt went in to take part in the show, Leo made the necessary arrangements. There was a large bandstand near the big tent, roofed over, but open at the sides except for a wooden railing. Leo had the railing taken down and ropes put up, and the floor covered with canvas. And then the enclosure around the bandstand was roped off, so that admission fees could be collected from the spectators. And then he made a few other arrangements.
When the big show was over, Leo woke Fr
eddy and brought him over to the bandstand. Several hundred crowded around the stand, and as the lion and the pig worked their way through, many of them pushed forward to whack Freddy on the back and shout encouragement, for nearly everybody now knew about the two hundred dollars and hoped that he would get it back. Mr. Boomschmidt, as referee, was already on the platform, introducing Mr. Golcher. “In this corner, ladies and gentlemen, Henry P. Golcher, known as the Bounding Balloonist.”
Mr. Golcher, dressed in a blue silk robe with a large G on the breast pocket, rose and shook his clenched fists above his head.
“And in this corner,” went on Mr. Boomschmidt, as Freddy climbed through the ropes, “that well known figure, that paragon of pugnacity, Freddy, the Perilous Pig!” He paused for the applause. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, this match will be for a purse of one hundred dollars, generously donated by Boomschmidt’s Colossal and Unparalleled Circus. The best two out of three falls; no biting, gouging, scratching, no chawing or gnawing; and may the best man—or my goodness, the best pig!—win! Go!”
Mr. Golcher rose, tossed off the robe, and stood revealed in the close-fitting blue tights and star-spangled trunks he sometimes wore in his balloon ascensions. There were some cheers, for he was a fine figure of a man, though a little thin. He smiled confidently as he moved in a crouching position towards the center of the ring. Freddy tried to smile confidently, too, but he wasn’t very successful. Still, he felt that he had a chance of winning. He had no hands, of course, with which to grab Mr. Golcher, and his legs were too short to get any sort of a hold with. But like every pig, he was a past master at wriggling. He was pretty sure that he could wriggle out of any hold Mr. Golcher got on him. And then, too, to get a decision, Mr. Golcher would have to put him down on his back—and a pig’s back is a good deal rounder than a man’s. As Freddy sized up the situation, it would be almost impossible for him to put Mr. Golcher on his back. But if he could wriggle and stall until Mr. Golcher got thoroughly tired out and winded, then he would have a chance.
And since the thing to do was to get Mr. Golcher winded, Freddy charged out of his corner at the run and drove straight at Mr. Golcher’s stomach. The balloonist hadn’t expected this, and he tried to sidestep. But it was too late. They came together with a smack, and Mr. Golcher said “Wha-a-a-a-a!” and sat down.
But it was too late.
Freddy was pretty pleased with himself and would have liked to stop and acknowledge the cheers, but he knew he must follow up his advantage. Mr. Golcher had rolled over and was lying flat on his stomach, trying to gain time until he got his wind back. He was too close to the ground for Freddy to butt him again, so the pig jumped up in the air and came down heavily on Mr. Golcher’s back. Mr. Golcher said “Wha-a-a-al” again, only not so loud this time, and lay without moving. And as he lay there, helpless, Freddy managed to roll him over on his back.
“First fall for Freddy!” shouted Mr. Boomschmidt. The crowd cheered itself hoarse, and Hannibal, who had been appointed to act as second for Mr. Golcher, reached out with his trunk and dragged his principal back into his corner, where he propped him up in the chair and fanned him with his big ears.
Back in his own corner, Freddy relaxed and listened to the advice which his second, Leo, was whispering in his ear. “You’re doing fine. But look out for him; he’s plenty tough. Look at him: he’s pretending to feel a lot worse than he does. Be careful.”
“I will,” said Freddy. But he had no intention of being careful. Mr. Golcher looked pretty done up to him. And when Mr. Boomschmidt said: “Go!” and Mr. Golcher staggered out of his chair, he rushed out of his corner just as he had before.
But Mr. Golcher was ready this time. With a swift turn he twisted aside, and Freddy missed him entirely and charged right across the platform and through the ropes and came down Plump! on a little boy named Jimmy Wiggs, who was one of his warmest admirers. This was lucky for Freddy, because although it knocked the wind out of him, he wasn’t really hurt. But it wasn’t so lucky for the little boy, who had to be taken home and put to bed with a hot water bottle. It shows how much he admired Freddy, though, that as they carried him off, he said: “I hope Freddy wins.”
The spectators hoisted Freddy back on to the platform, and some of them wanted the match to stop until he got his wind back, but even Freddy admitted that this wouldn’t be fair. And so Mr. Golcher won that fall with ease.
“I told you to be careful,” said Leo. “Now this time, lay off that butting. Close in and wrestle. After all, this isn’t a collision contest.”
When Mr. Boomschmidt said: “Go!” for the third time, the two contestants approached each other warily, Freddy on all fours, Mr. Golcher crouching, with one arm guarding his stomach. Then suddenly Mr. Golcher darted forward and caught Freddy by the leg, and in two seconds they were at it hammer and tongs, rolling and thumping about the platform. Hold after hold Mr. Golcher tried, and each time Freddy managed to wriggle free. But no sooner had he escaped from one hold than another was clamped on him, and each time his shoulders got closer to the canvas. He could see Mr. Boomschmidt dancing about them, peering at his shoulders, watching for them both to touch the floor at the same time. He caught a glimpse of Leo, shaking his head hopelessly. He wriggled for all he was worth, but relentlessly he was forced down. His left shoulder-blade was on the canvas, his right one went down, down—and then suddenly something happened to Mr. Golcher. He gave a sort of yelp and slapped at the back of his neck. And Freddy, partly released, slipped away.
Mr. Golcher had him again in a second though, and the struggle went on. And then the same thing happened all over again. With Mr. Golcher’s left arm around his neck, and Mr. Golcher’s right arm locked about his left hind leg, he was panting and wriggling desperately to keep from being pressed flat, when an electric shock seemed to go through his opponent, who again yelped and, letting go with his left arm, clawed at his neck.
Time after time the same thing happened. Freddy hardly had to struggle at all. He just waited until he was almost down, and at the last moment each time something happened to Mr. Golcher so that Freddy could wriggle free. It was a good deal like the struggle in the balloon basket, when Leo had been secretly helping, but there was certainly nobody on the platform but themselves and Mr. Boomschmidt, whose anxious face kept appearing to Freddy, now upside down, now sidewise, now right side up, as bent over the wrestlers.
One thing was certain, though. Mr. Golcher was getting tired. He had all but had the decision a dozen times, and the effort was beginning to tell on him. He was panting heavily, and his grip was becoming weaker, his movements slower. To the spectators, it began to look like a slow motion picture of a wrestling match. And then all at once he gave a moan and fell limply across the pig. Freddy wriggled out, then getting his snout under Mr. Golcher, rolled him over on his back.
“Third fall for Freddy!” shouted Mr. Boomschmidt. He seized Freddy’s right fore trotter and help it up. “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner! Freddy, the Perilous Pig, wins the hundred dollar purse so generously donated by Boomschmidt’s Colossal and Unparalleled Circus.” He handed the roll of bills to the pig.
The cheers rocked the bandstand, as Mr. Golcher got slowly to his knees. He was trying to say something, but the noise was so great that nobody could hear him until Mr. Boomschmidt held up his hand for silence.
“And now,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, “a word from Mr. Henry P. Golcher, the Bounding Balloonist, whose gallant effort, though doomed to defeat, will be remembered as long as the beautiful village of South Pharisee continues to stand, mirrored in the calm waters of Bounding Brook. A gallant fight, my friends, which deserves to go down in history with Thermopylae, with the Alamo, with Boomschmidt’s—”
“Hey, boss,” interrupted Leo; “let him talk.”
“Eh?” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “My goodness, of course. Now, Mr. Golcher?”
“He wouldn’t have won,” panted Mr. Golcher, “if somebody hadn’t kept sticking pins in me.”
“P
ins?” said Mr. Boomschmidt.
“Look at the back of my neck,” said Mr. Golcher, turning around.
“No pins there,” said Mr. Boomschmidt.
“Of course there aren’t. But you can see where they were stuck into me.”
“Little red spots,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “H’m, yes. Maybe you’re coming down with the measles, Golcher. My goodness, Leo, how awful that would be! None of our animals have ever had measles, have they? Golcher, you must leave. Measles are catching.”
“‘Is,’ boss,” said Leo.
“Is, boss?” repeated Mr. Boomschmidt, frowning at the lion. “What kind of talk is that, Leo? Really, you get harder to understand every day. What on earth—”
“Measles is,” said Leo. “Measles is singular.”
“Won’t be singular if all the elephants and tigers and hyenas get them. Mice is; measles is,” he muttered. “I can never get these things straight. But, see here, Golcher—”
“Wait a minute,” said Freddy. “In the darkness up under the roof of the bandstand his eye had caught a tiny gleam of light—such a glimmer as a strand of cobweb will make when it catches the sunlight. And looking more closely, he saw that there was indeed a long strand hanging down from the center of the roof, and ending just over his head. And right at the end was Mr. Webb, looking—Freddy thought, though it is always hard, even close up, to tell about a spider’s expression—very pleased with himself.
“Mr. Golcher is right,” he said. “It wasn’t pins, though; it was a friend of mine, a spider. He slid down and bit you on the neck, every time you were about to win. I’m sorry. I suppose he thought he was helping me. But it wasn’t fair. This money doesn’t belong to me.” And he handed the hundred dollars to Mr. Golcher. “You’d have won,” he said. “I guess this belongs to you.”
Mr. Golcher looked at the pig in amazement. “You mean you—you’re giving it to me?”
“I lost,” said Freddy. “At least, I would have if the match had been fair.”
Freddy and the Perilous Adventure Page 11
