The next morning after breakfast he went up to the cow barn to call on Mrs. Wiggins. She had been his partner for a while when he had been in the detective business, and he valued her advice highly. Like all poets, his schemes were apt to be brilliant, but sometimes highly impractical, and her sound common sense could always be trusted to pick out the weak spots in them. If more poets would seek the advice of cows, they would be less criticized for impractical behavior.
On the way across the barnyard he met Mr. Bean. The farmer stopped and looked at him, puffing at the short pipe that always stuck out through his whiskers as if it grew there. “Hear you got fired.”
“Yes, sir,” said Freddy.
Mr. Bean puffed some more. “Camphor phoned me. Said you stole things.”
“No, sir; I didn’t steal anything,” said Freddy.
“Told him he was crazy,” Mr. Bean’s pipe gave three puffs and a gurgle. He took it out of his mouth and rapped it on his knee. “Need any help?” he asked gruffly.
“No, sir,” said Freddy; “I think I can manage.”
Mr. Bean gave a nod and a grunt, slapped Freddy on the back and went on across the barnyard.
That was the nice thing about Mr. Bean, Freddy thought. He let the animals manage their own affairs. He didn’t go giving you help unless you asked for it. As a result, you seldom needed it. Because you knew it was there.
Mrs. Wiggins had already had Freddy’s story from Jinx, and she and her sisters agreed that something would have to be done about Mr. Winch and Horace. But she didn’t agree with Freddy that a general attack should be made by the animals on the Camphor estate. “In the first place,” she said, “Mr. Winch has got a gun, and some of us might get hurt. Not that a few birdshot would hurt any of us bigger animals much, but—” she laughed her big booming laugh, “—us cows couldn’t afford to have our beauty spoiled.”
“You oughtn’t to say things like that, Mrs. Wiggins,” said Mrs. Wurzburger. “You make Freddy think we are very conceited.” Mrs. Wurzburger never could take a joke, even a small one.
Mrs. Wiggins winked at Freddy. Then she said: “In the second place, you don’t just want to drive the Winches away. You want to prove to Mr. Camphor that you aren’t a thief. Well, it seems to me that the first thing is to find out where the Winches hid the things they stole.”
“Oh, they’re probably at their house. You remember that house, Mrs. Wiggins, where Charles and Henrietta were almost fricasseed for Sunday dinner. But we don’t want to get the things. If we brought them here Mr. Winch would just say that we stole them in the first place. You want to remember that he’s an awful good liar.”
“But you’ve got to know where they are,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “They’re probably at his house, all right, but ‘probably’ isn’t good enough.—For land’s sakes, what’s the matter with Jinx?” she exclaimed, as a heartbroken “miaouw” came from somewhere near by.
They all went to the door. On the back porch the cat was sitting by an overturned saucer of milk. Instead of lapping the milk up before it all dripped down and soaked into the ground, he just sat and yowled.
“What’s the matter with the big gump?” said Freddy. “I never knew him to make such a fuss about anything before.”
Mrs. Wiggins laughed. “I know what it is. Stay here and watch.”
If Mrs. Bean had had a heart of stone, those piteous cries would have softened it. But as she had about the softest heart in the county, she was at the door before the third yowl had died away in a long mournful tremolo.
“Gracious Peter!” she exclaimed. “What on earth … Oh, you’ve spilt your milk! Well, there, there.” She bent and stroked Jinx’s head. “I’ll get you some more.” She took the saucer in, and returned presently and set it in front of the cat. “There. I put some cream in it this time. Now for pity’s sake don’t knock it over again.” And she went in. Jinx gobbled the milk quickly, and hardly waiting to finish the last few drops in his usually tidy way, bounded over to the cowbarn.
“Did you see that?” he exclaimed excitedly. “Did you see that, all of you? I guess that proves I was right, doesn’t it?”
“Did you see that?”
Several more animals appeared from where they had been watching behind the corner of the barn. “It sure does, Jinx,” they said. “You were dead right.”
“Proves what?” exclaimed Freddy disgustedly. “If you howl, you get fed. What’s so wonderful about that?”
“Well, you ought to know, Freddy,” said Jinx. “It’s a proverb. You know: ‘There’s no use crying over spilt milk.’ Well, there is some use, all right. I cried over it, and I got cream. That makes another one that’s wrong.”
“We’ve made a kind of game of it, Freddy,” said Mrs. Wiggins, “since we heard about your Mr. Camphor. We think up proverbs and then try them out. Most of them seem to be wrong. Like ‘A cat can look at a king.’ Can Jinx look at a king? Certainly he can’t.”
“He could if there was a king around anywheres,” said the pig.
“That isn’t what the proverb says. It doesn’t say: ‘A cat could look at a king if he had a king to look at.’ It just says plainly: he can. Well now, can he?”
“Maybe Jinx isn’t the cat they meant,” said Freddy. “That’s a pretty hard one to prove. Hey, I’ve got one!”
“Let’s have it and we’ll try it out,” said Jinx.
“A cat has nine lives,” said Freddy with a grin.
“Oh, yeah?” said Jinx. “And suppose it was wrong: where’d I be?”
“You’d be famous,” said Georgie. “You’d be a martyr to science. The cat that sacrificed himself to find out the truth. Come on, Jinx.”
“Yah!” said Jinx, because he couldn’t think of anything better to say. But after a second he did think of something. “I’ve got one for you then, Georgie. ‘Any stick is good to beat a dog with.’”
“I’ll let you try it if you’ll try one I just thought of,” said the dog.
“Where’s a stick?” said Jinx. “O K, let’s have it.”
“‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat,’” said the dog with a snicker.
“I don’t know why all these proverbs are so down on cats,” Jinx said. “Aren’t there any about cows?”
“How about ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?” said Mrs. Wiggins. “I’ve heard Mr. Bean say that to Mrs. Bean when she asked him something he didn’t want to answer. Like what he was going to give her for Christmas.”
“Pooh!” said Freddy. “If that was so, Jinx would have been dead before he got his eyes open.”
“Yeah?” said Jinx. “Well, maybe so. But I’ll tell you one thing I’m curious about, and that’s what we’re going to do about those Winches.” He was serious now, and the other animals stopped laughing and nodded agreement. “I guess we all know what happened at Mr. Camphor’s,” he went on. “And I want to say for myself, and for every animal on this farm, that we’re behind you, Freddy, a hundred per cent. Am I right?”
The others agreed eagerly. “You bet!” “You don’t have to be told you can count on us, Freddy.” “We’re just waiting to be told what to do.” “When do we start?”
Freddy had known of course that he didn’t have to ask for help from any of his friends. But it was heartening to hear them say so.
His ears grew pink. “Well,” he stammered, “I—I—”
“Land sakes, don’t thank us yet!” said Mrs. Wiggins. “We haven’t done anything. Wait till Mr. Camphor apologizes to you and gives you your job back. Then you can give us all a good big hug. Won’t that be something, girls?” she said, and the other two cows giggled happily.
“That’s right,” said Jinx. “We’ll make old Camphor beg your pardon on his knees before we’re through.”
“Oh, he isn’t so bad,” said Freddy. “I mean he’s all right. You can’t really blame him.”
“Well, I dunno,” said Hank, who had just come up. “Seems like he ought to have known just by looking at you that you’re honest. Tho
ugh I dunno; maybe he ain’t so much to blame either.”
Freddy laughed. “You think I’ve got a kind of criminal look, eh, Hank?”
“I don’t mean that at all,” said the horse, looking embarrassed. “Now, Freddy, you know I don’t. I just mean, maybe he ain’t very bright.”
“Skip it,” said Freddy. “I know what you mean, Hank.—Well, why don’t we go into the cowbarn and talk it over? Where are Charles and Henrietta? And, Georgie, round up the mice, will you? They might have some ideas. Goodness knows, I need them. I’d been thinking that we could just go up and drive the Winches away, but after talking with Mrs. Wiggins I see that that wouldn’t be much good. We’ve got to be more subtle.”
“Land of Goshen!” exclaimed Mrs. Wiggins. “If I’m going to have to be subtle, Freddy, you’ve lost the battle right now. That is if I know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t think I know myself,” said the pig. “But come on; let’s go inside and talk it over.”
Chapter 12
The chief difficulty that the animals had during the talk in the cow barn was to keep Charles from making a speech. Charles was a good orator, but oratory isn’t much use when you are planning a campaign. What you want then is ideas, and lots of common sense. Fortunately Henrietta was there, and whenever Charles jumped up and began to spout about “defending the honor of the Bean farm,” and “marching out with banners flying to meet the enemy,” she would give him a good sharp peck on the side of the head, and he would subside. So they were able to plan two things that had to be done before any direct attack on the Winches could be attempted.
The first thing was to find out if Mr. Winch had hidden the stolen things in his house, which was off the main road, about ten miles south of the Bean farm. “Of course the Winches won’t be there,” said Freddy, “but the house will probably be locked up tight, so whoever goes will have to get down the chimney. Now I’d like a couple of volunteers. Who’ll volunteer to look over the Winch house?”
Nobody answered. The four mice—Eek, Quik, Eeny and Cousin Augustus—who were sitting on a rafter, put their heads together and whispered.
Charles ruffled up his feathers and strutted forward. “I am amazed!” he said. “I am astounded! Are these the animals that fought and defeated the terrible Ignormus? Are these those mighty warriors who marched steadily up to the very muzzle of the gun trained on them from the Grimby house? Where is the old Bean fighting spirit? Well, here is one within whose proud bosom that spirit still blazes. I will volunteer. I will go to the Winch house. And if I cannot get down the chimney, I will break in the door! I will—”
“You will shut your silly beak,” said Henrietta, pecking him sharply. “You! You couldn’t break into a pasteboard box! What’s the sense of their volunteering if they can’t get through the chimney?”
“That’s right,” said Hank. “Looks like a job for Santa Claus to me.”
The mice had stopped whispering. They stepped forward as one mouse. “We’ll go, Freddy,” they said together.
“Good,” said Freddy. “I was sure you would. Jinx tells me that Breckenridge is expected this afternoon; he said he’d drop in. He’ll fly you down there and bring you back. Two of you, that is. I’d like the other two to go with Jinx and me up to Mr. Camphor’s.” For that was the second thing that had been decided upon.
So late that afternoon, although the eagle had not yet put in an appearance, Jinx and Freddy, with Eeny and Cousin Augustus riding on his back, set out. They went up through the woods and over the hill, and then down past the Schemerhorn farm in the valley. An old black dog walked stiffly out of the gate towards them as they went by.
“Why, that’s Mr. Schemerhorn’s Johnny,” said Freddy. “I haven’t seen him in a pig’s age. Hi, Johnny!”
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” said the dog, peering short-sightedly at them. “Oh, it’s you, Freddy. How’s everyone down at Bean’s?” He sat down and scratched his ear with a hind foot.
“Fine,” said Freddy. “There’s a flea on your ear, Johnny.”
“Oh, yes. There’s several families of them living with me this summer.”
“Why don’t you chase ’em off?” said Jinx.
“Oh, I don’t mind ’em,” said Johnny, scratching his other ear. “Fact is, I’m getting pretty old. Can’t hunt any more. So they kind of help to pass the time. Give me something to do.” He blinked at them. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a small bone with you?” he asked. “You know old Schemerhorn. He don’t hardly even feed himself. When he gets through with a bone it’s as bare as a china egg.”
“We haven’t,” said Freddy. “I’m sorry. If I’d known we’d see you … But about those fleas, Johnny—you mean you’re friendly with them?”
“Sure. Even taught ’em tricks.” He grinned. “Look here.” He gave a low growl. And immediately Freddy felt a sharp bite on his back and another on his foreleg, while Jinx whirled quickly and bit at the end of his tail.
For a minute Johnny grinned at them, as they jumped and scratched. The mice fell off Freddy’s back and scrambled up on the fence rail to be out of the way.
“Hey!” yelled Jinx. “That’s a swell way to treat callers. Call ’em off, will you?”
“Atten-tion!” said Johnny, and Freddy saw the fleas, like tiny black specks, hopping through the air. They lined up on a stone in front of Johnny, with one, who was a little larger than the others, out in front.
“Say, wait a minute,” said Freddy. “Would they do that for me?”
“Sure, sure,” said the dog. “That big one, he’s the head man. When you growl at anybody, he gives the word and they go for him. Of course, they don’t do any fancy drills or anything like that, but—well, look here.” He put his head down close to the stone. “Waltz, boys.” And the fleas paired off and whirled around in a dance. “O.K. Now hop.” And they all began bouncing about the stone like tiny grains of sand.
“Waltz, boys.” And the fleas paired off …
“H’m,” said the pig. “Very interesting.” He looked thoughtful for a minute, then glanced up at the sky, which had become overcast. “Going to rain,” he said. “We’d better be on our way. Come on, mice. So long, Johnny.”
By the time they got to the big iron gates of the Camphor estate, it had grown much darker, and had begun to sprinkle. Freddy sent the mice in to see if the Winches were around, and when they came back and reported nobody in sight he led them in, and they all sneaked down along the creek to the entrance to the secret passage. Freddy snapped on his flashlight and they went along the passage and up the stairs to the first landing.
Light was coming through the peephole above their heads on the right, and Eeny climbed the rough plank wall and looked through. Then he came down and reported that he had seen into a kitchen where an old woman was cooking supper.
“That’s Mrs. Winch,” Freddy whispered. “She’ll be giving Mr. Camphor his supper in the dining room as soon as it’s ready, and then Mr. Winch and Horace will come in from wherever they are for theirs. And when they’re all eating, we’ll see if we can get into Mr. Camphor’s bedroom.”
They had to wait nearly half an hour before heavy footsteps and a rumble of voices in the kitchen told them that the Winches had come in. The wall was so thick that they couldn’t hear anything that was said. Eeny climbed up again, and after a few minutes, came down to report that a tall man had just carried a tray with some covered dishes on it into another room.
“That’s Bannister,” said Freddy. “He’s taking it into the dining room to Mr. Camphor.”
“And that man with the black moustache and his boy are sitting at the kitchen table,” Eeny said. “Don’t they ever wash up before supper? That boy’s hands are so black I shouldn’t think he could see to eat.”
“I don’t suppose he’s washed in years,” said Freddy. “He’s still got that extra black smudge under his left eye that he had five years ago when we went to Florida. Well, let’s go.”
They went on up to the
second landing, and Freddy turned the knob of the door which the toads had told him opened into Mr. Camphor’s bedroom. It was a heavy door, but it opened very smoothly and silently, and they crept into a large, pleasant room, paneled in dark wood, whose big windows looked out on the lake, over which rain was now sweeping in gusts. Mr. Camphor’s slippers were beside the bed, and his suitcase was on a chair, and on the dresser was an open leather case containing hairbrushes, razor, toothbrush and other toilet articles.
Freddy posted Cousin Augustus at the crack under the door into the hall, to warn them if anybody came upstairs. Then he said, “Now, this is the idea. We open all the dresser drawers and pull some of the things out on the floor, and we muss up the things in the suitcase, and generally make the room look as if a burglar had got in and had been hunting for valuables. Then we take one thing that Mr. Camphor is sure to miss, and while the Winches are at supper, we find the room Mr. Winch is staying in—I think it’s one of the small ones at the back—and we hide it among his things.” He paused doubtfully. “I don’t know,” he said. “It seemed all right when we talked it over, but maybe … Well, how do you fellows feel about it now? It’s an awfully mean trick to play on anybody. It isn’t very honest—planting stolen property on Mr. Winch.”
Jinx, who had gone over to the suitcase and started to toss things out of it, turned around. “Oh, pooh!” he said. “That’s what he did to you, isn’t it? You’re just giving him a taste of his own medicine. And I hope it chokes him!” he added vindictively.
“Well,” said Freddy, “there’s a proverb that says ‘Turnabout’s fair play.’ But I wish—”
“Hey, look,” said Eeny suddenly. He went up to the pig and stared at him angrily. “This guy is your enemy, isn’t he? Well then, you have to fight him with his own weapons. And if you want to know what I think—well, if you’re going to go all honorable and tender-hearted about him, I quit! I resign! I won’t help anybody who hasn’t the spirit to help himself. Why don’t you go down and kiss the guy?”
Freddy and Mr. Camphor Page 9
