He was in the living room, packing up one or two things that he wanted to take back to the farm with him, when he heard heavy footsteps on the deck; then the front door was slammed shut and a key squeaked in the lock. He ran to the window. A black-moustached face grinned at him through the screen.
“Hey!” he said. “What are you doing? Let me out of here!”
“Now take it easy, pig,” said Mr. Winch. “We got your best interests at heart, me and Horace. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, like if maybe you was to decide to run away or something, and then you got lost or hit by an automobile. Your Mr. Bean would feel pretty bad if anything like that happened. No, we’re going to take better care of you than that.” He grinned again. “Safe bind, safe find,” he said. “That’s what I always say: safe bind, safe find.” And he turned and went away.
“My goodness,” thought Freddy, “how silly I’ve been! Why didn’t I go when I had the chance! ‘Safe bind, safe find,’ eh? Well, I hope that proverb isn’t true. But I guess it is. He’ll find me when he wants me, all right.”
Chapter 7
In spite of the fact that Freddy now had the peace and quiet and comfortable surroundings that he had wanted to get when he applied to Mr. Camphor for the job, he was pretty unhappy for the next few days. The houseboat was too strongly built to break out of, and the windows were too small to crawl out of, and with the birds gone, there was no one whom he could send for help. Elmo and Waldo didn’t appear, but even if they had they wouldn’t have been much use.
At meal times Horace brought him down a tray covered with a napkin and passed it to him through the window. But the napkin was always spotted with dirty fingermarks, and when Freddy lifted it off, the dishes underneath all bore signs of having been sampled. Sometimes, if there had been something specially good, like strawberry shortcake, there would be nothing but a few drops of strawberry juice left in the bottom of the dish. But even if the things looked undisturbed, Freddy didn’t have much appetite for them, knowing that Horace had probably pawed them over.
Freddy was so worried and so bored at the same time that he was at last driven to do some work. He made a list of proverbs to be tested out, and he wrote a rather sad little poem about one of them, “Home is where the heart is.” It went like this:
The wheels are where the cart is;
The jam is where the tart is;
And home is where the heart is,
But mine is far away.
I miss the dogs and chickens,
And Jinx and Mrs. Wiggins—
I miss them like the dickens,
Far more than I can say.
The wave is where the foam is;
The brush is where the comb is;
My heart is where my home is,
And that is with the Beans.
I am not one who flinches
When cold misfortune pinches,
But I would not like the Winches
Even if they were clean.
After he had written this he felt better, and he put on his beret and smock and started to fix up the portrait of Sir Archibald Camphor. He patched the canvas, but when it came to painting in the face, it occurred to him that he didn’t know what Sir Archibald looked like. Did he have black eyes and a full beard, or blue eyes and a long yellow moustache? Or grey eyes and no whiskers at all? Being in full armor, with his vizor up, not much of the face would show, but some of it would have to. Or would it? Why, Freddy thought—why couldn’t he paint him with his vizor down? He wouldn’t have to paint the face, then—just the steel vizor. Freddy didn’t suppose any of those old knights had ever been painted that way, but there was no reason why they mightn’t have. If Sir Archibald was a very warlike knight, for instance, and wanted to be painted as he looked just going into a battle, he might be painted that way. Freddy decided to try it.
It took him two days. But he had to admit, when the work was finished, that it was a very fine job of painting. Sir Archibald looked as warlike as anything. It was too bad that there was nobody to show it to. Of course there are some artists who say that they don’t care whether other people praise their work or not; if they themselves are pleased with it, that is enough. I am glad to say that Freddy wasn’t that kind. He liked being praised just as much as you and I do.
He spent a good deal of time at the window, watching to see if any bird or animal came by, whom he could send to the Bean farm for help. One afternoon he saw a tiny speck, high up in the sky. For quite a while it hung motionless, then it circled slowly. A hawk, Freddy thought. And knowing how sharp hawks’ eyes are, and how curious they are about anything on the ground that they can’t understand, he tied a handkerchief to one of his paint brushes and waved it out the window. He waved it quite a long time, and at last the bird seemed to become interested. He came gliding down on a long slant of air, and then Freddy saw that he wasn’t a hawk at all, but an eagle.
There weren’t many eagles in that part of the state. Freddy knew of two, and as he was acquainted with them both he at once became very much excited. He stuck his head out of the window and waved more frantically than ever. And as the eagle soared across above him, just skimming the treetops, he shouted: “Hi, Breckenridge!” at the top of his lungs. But the eagle merely gave a harsh scream and waggled his wings in greeting, and a few seconds later he was again climbing up the invisible stairways of the air to his former position.
“Oh dear,” said Freddy, “he just thought I was saying hello. But maybe if I keep on waving …”
“What’s going on here? Who you yelling at?” demanded a voice, and Mr. Winch appeared on the bank opposite the houseboat. He had a shotgun under his arm.
Freddy had a sudden inspiration. “Why I—I was calling you,” he said. “I said: ‘Hi, Mr. Winch!’ I’m glad you heard me.”
“Yeah?” said Mr. Winch.
“Yes,” said Freddy. “I wanted to tell you about the lawn. It hasn’t been mowed since you got here, and the grass is getting pretty high. If it goes much longer, you won’t be able to mow it at all.”
“Who—me?” demanded Mr. Winch. “You don’t think I’m going to cut all that stuff do you?”
“I’d just as soon cut it,” said Freddy. “If you’ll let me out long enough.”
Mr. Winch thought about it for a minute.
“People going by and seeing the grass so long will think it’s queer,” Freddy said. “They know Mr. Camphor wants it cut.”
“O. K.” said Mr. Winch. He let Freddy out and accompanied him to the shed where the mower was kept. “No funny business now,” he said as Freddy started the engine and got into the seat. “I’ll be watching.” And he tapped the gun meaningly.
So Freddy started. He went straight, back and forth, back and forth, three or four times. Above him, the eagle was again a speck in the blue sky. And pretty soon Mr. Winch got tired of standing guard over him and went and sat down under a tree. And Freddy steered out into the middle of the big lawn and mowed the word “Help!” in letters forty feet long.
But something aroused Mr. Winch’s suspicions. Perhaps it was the sound the mower made in cutting the short curves of the letters. Whatever it was, he got up suddenly and lounged across to where Freddy was just finishing the p. At first he just laughed. “Writin’ a letter to the moon?” he asked. Then he looked up and saw the eagle, who was spiralling downward. “Oho!” he said. He put the gun to his shoulder. “Get down!” he commanded. “Quick! Into the house!” And he drove Freddy before him at a run.
“Quick! Into the house!”
The eagle, with the great presence of mind which all eagles possess, evidently grasped the situation. He folded his wings and shot down like an arrow, apparently attempting a rescue. But before he could attack they had reached the house. As Freddy was prodded through the doorway, he could hear the whistle of air through the stiff feathers as the eagle spread his great wings to brake his fall and keep from driving straight into the side of the house. Mr. Winch turned, and at sight of the steel-shar
p talons spread to tear at him, pulled up the gun and fired. But the eagle ducked at the flash and the shot hissed harmlessly past him. Then with a scream he soared up and over the house.
Freddy spent the next few days locked in a small bedroom on the second floor where at night he could hear Simon and his family scrabbling around in the attic. Except when he was sleeping, and eating the meals that Horace brought him, he spent his time at the window, which looked out over the lake. But though he watched the sky until his neck ached, no floating speck appeared anywhere in the blue. But perhaps Breckenridge had gone down to the farm to report what he had seen. Perhaps even now a rescue party was on its way through the Big Woods. It was this hope that sustained him during the long hours of imprisonment.
On the second morning he heard what he at first thought was a plane, then realized that it was the outboard motor when he saw the houseboat moving slowly out into the lake. Mr. Winch and Horace were aboard; they anchored offshore in front of the house and started fishing. At noon they came back for dinner, and afterwards they went out again. They caught a few perch, and cleaned them on the nice white table under the awning where in fine weather Freddy used to eat his supper. It made him pretty unhappy to see what a mess they were making of the boat.
The next morning when Horace brought up the breakfast, he said: “There was a cat came to see you last night. Pa said it wouldn’t do no harm to tell you.” He giggled. “Can you beat it? A cat coming to call on a pig!”
“Oh,” said Freddy breathlessly, “was it Jinx? Where is he?”
“Dunno,” said Horace. “He went.”
“Went!” Freddy exclaimed. “Didn’t you tell him I was here?”
Horace laughed derisively. “You must think we’re dumb or something! Nah, pa told him you’d gone. Said you and him didn’t get along so good, and you’d taken a job as caretaker on some big place on the other side of the lake. Said a man had come and called for you in a big car. The cat wanted to know where, and pa said it was about eight miles beyond Otesaraga village, and then the cat wanted to know the man’s name, and pa said he thought it was Smith.” He laughed again. “Pa’s smart, all right.”
Freddy didn’t say anything. If Jinx had been warned by the eagle, he wouldn’t be taken in by any such story as that. On the other hand, if he had just come up alone to call, he might believe it. It didn’t look too good.
“Say,” said Horace, “that’s quite a fancy picture you got on the boat. Did you paint it?”
“Part of it,” said Freddy. “Why?”
“Oh, I dunno. I kind of liked it. Gee, I wish I could paint like that.”
“Well,” said Freddy, who thought this might be a way of getting on the right side of the boy, “I guess I could teach you. I mean, I could start you. I’m not really a very good painter—my talents lie elsewhere. But if you want to bring my paints and things up here, I could show you a little.”
“Aw, well.” Horace seemed in doubt. “I dunno. Pa says painting’s sissy. I guess ’tis … maybe. Anyway, he says I can live on the boat, and I’ll be pretty busy there now.” He hesitated a moment, then turned and left the room.
“If I could get that boy away from his father,” Freddy thought, “I could get somewhere with him. I have a feeling about him, that he isn’t as bad as he seems. He stays dirty and throws stones because his father tells him that’s the manly thing to do. Yes, I certainly have a feeling about him.”
When Freddy said this he meant that he believed there was a lot of good in Horace if it could only be brought out. And he was probably right. For pigs understand boys pretty well, perhaps because they are so much alike. If fathers and mothers who have trouble with bad boys would consult pigs oftener, they would profit by it. But perhaps that is too much to ask.
Freddy however had no chance to do anything with Horace. That afternoon he heard a car come up the drive. He knew it wasn’t Mr. Winch’s car, because there was no rattling and banging, only the swish of big tires on gravel. The front door was on the other side of the house, so he couldn’t see who got out of it, but he heard doors opening and shutting downstairs, and the sound of quick footsteps, and after a few minutes Horace came out and ran down towards the houseboat. After that there was silence for a long time.
And then heavy footsteps came up the stairs. The door was unlocked and Mr. Winch came in. He looked cleaner than usual—or perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that he looked less dirty. There were no crumbs on his vest and an attempt had evidently been made to brush his hair and wash his face. But the brushing had only been done in front, so that the back of his head still gave a good imitation of a haystack in a high wind, and his face was just streaky, like a window that has been carelessly washed.
“Mr. Camphor’s come back from Washington for a day,” he said. “He wants to see you.” Then he scowled threateningly. “And you be pretty careful what you tell him, if you don’t want to get into trouble. Come along.”
Chapter 8
Mr. Camphor sat behind a big desk in his library. Beside him stood Bannister, with his chin up and his elbows out. Evidently Mr. Camphor needed a lot of dignity for the coming interview. On a chair in front of the desk sat Mrs. Winch.
When Freddy came in, followed by Mr. Winch, Mr. Camphor looked up. His expression was so disapproving that Freddy’s heart would have gone into his boots if he had had any on, and his tail came completely uncurled, as it always did when he was scared.
“Well, young pig,” said Mr. Camphor severely, “what have you got to say for yourself, eh?”
“I—I don’t know why you ask me a question like that,” Freddy said. “I should think you’d be asking these people what they’re doing here, and why they locked me up. I’ve only tried to do my duty.”
“I’ve already asked them,” said Mr. Camphor. “They have told me about your behavior, and I must say I am very much disappointed in you. But I won’t dismiss anybody without giving him a hearing. So if you have anything to say, let’s hear it.”
“I can only tell you just what happened,” Freddy replied. And he did, leaving out only the part that had to do with the rats and the secret passage.
When he had finished, Mr. Winch, who had been sneering openly through the recital, said: “Not a word of truth in it, sir. As I told you, Horace and self only came to pay a short call. But when we found the state things were in, and when we realized that Mrs. Winch would be blamed for it, and even perhaps accused of stealing the things that were missing—”
“Missing!” Freddy interrupted. “What things are missing? If there’s anything been stolen—”
“Kindly let him finish,” cut in Mr. Camphor sharply, and Freddy subsided.
“As I was saying, sir,” Mr. Winch continued, “when we realized this, we decided that we had better stay for a while and try to put affairs in order. It wasn’t very convenient, right at this time, for I have my own business to attend to at home, but we felt that no sacrifice was too great to make when your interests, as well as Mrs. Winch’s, were at stake.”
“What can’t be cured must be endured,” said Bannister.
“Eh?” said Mr. Camphor. “You refer to this pig, Bannister? I don’t agree with you. If we can’t cure him of his bad habits, we don’t have to endure him. We can just get rid of him. Just make a note of that.”
So Bannister took a notebook and a pencil from his pocket and jotted it down. Even as frightened and unhappy as he was, Freddy noticed that the man did it without in the least relaxing his dignity, or even lowering his chin so that he could see what he was writing.
Mr. Camphor turned again to Freddy. “You are not aware, I suppose,” he said rather sarcastically, “that some of the most valuable coins in my collection are missing? Also several suits of clothes, and a small Dresden china basket decorated with forget-me-nots and filled with peanuts, which stood on my desk. Also from my desk, a purse containing fifteen dollars.”
“Who steals my purse steals trash,” said Bannister.
Mr. Camphor frowned. “You do seem to pick very poor proverbs today, Bannister,” he said. “A purse with fifteen dollars in it is certainly not trash.”
“I was referring to the purse itself, sir,” Bannister replied. “Not the money.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Camphor. “Dear me,” he said; “it was a pigskin purse, if I remember correctly.” He looked thoughtfully at Freddy.
“I know the rest of that proverb,” said the pig. “‘But he that filches from me my good name, robs me of that which not enriches him, and makes me poor indeed.’ And that, Mr. Camphor, is just what these people are trying to do. They’re just lying about me. I haven’t stolen anything. I—”
“Oh, yeah?” broke in Mr. Winch. “Well, who else stole the things, then? I suppose you won’t deny that you’ve been all over the house, sneaking in and out at odd hours? Mrs. Winch has heard you, night after night—”
“Why, Mrs. Winch!” Freddy exclaimed. “You wouldn’t have said that! Please, Mrs. Winch—I know you didn’t like having me here, but please tell Mr. Camphor the truth. Tell him what you said to me about Mr. Winch and Horace the day they came. Remember? You said you knew they’d cause you trouble, and you’d try to get rid of them. You said—”
“Yes, you tell him, Sarah!” interrupted Mr. Winch. He looked very hard at Mrs. Winch, and after a moment she said in a dull voice: “I didn’t say any such thing.”
“You was glad to see your dear husband, wasn’t you, Sarah?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Winch.
“And you’d heard this pig sneakin’ round at night and thought he was stealing things, didn’t you? But you was afraid of him, so you asked us to stay and protect you and look after the place. Eh?”
“Yes.”
Freddy saw that there was no help to be expected from Mrs. Winch. She was too afraid of her husband, or of losing her job, or perhaps both. Before he could think of anything else to say, Mr. Winch said: “I tell you, Mr. Camphor; if you want to see what kind of a caretaker this Freddy really is, come down to the houseboat. I want to show you how he looks after your nice things.”
Freddy and Mr. Camphor Page 6
