“Dear me, dear me!” Bannister exclaimed, growing flustered. “Certainly not! Mr. Camphor, sir, I hope you don’t think—”
“Oh, keep still, Bannister,” interrupted Mr. Camphor. “I don’t think one way or the other. Maybe you’re right, and before long we’ll begin stealing little things from each other. I want to find out what the sheriff thinks about this business.”
“I think somebody ain’t tellin’ the truth,” said the sheriff. “Here you capture a burglar, and he escapes, and on the way downstairs he turns into a pig and runs out the kitchen door. Now I like fairy tales, Mr. Camphor; after a hard day’s work at the jail, there’s nothing I like better than just to take my collar off and set back in my chair with my feet on the mantel and read a good fairy tale book about enchanted princesses and such. And if you folks want to tell me a fairy tale about an enchanted burglar, why I’ll set down and light my pipe and enjoy it. But if you’re going to tell me all this really happened the way you tell it, I’ll go get in my car and drive back to Centerboro.”
“But it was a pig, I tell you,” asserted Mr. Winch. “We all three of us saw him. And we recognized him, what’s more.”
Mrs. Winch and Horace nodded agreement.
“Well,” said the sheriff, “there’s just one question I want to ask you, then. This pig was in the house. We’ll say, for the sake of argument, that he was disguised, because you found the suit and the cap he wore on the stairs. But I’ve been around and looked at all the doors and windows. They’re all locked. All except the kitchen door. And the question is: how did he get into the house in the first place?”
“My goodness,” said Mr. Camphor, “I never thought of that. He couldn’t have got in except through the kitchen door. And you were in the kitchen all the time, Mrs. Winch, weren’t you?”
“He couldn’t have got in through the kitchen door,” Mrs. Winch said. “I’d have seen him.”
The sheriff raised his eyebrows and looked at Mr. Camphor, and Mr. Camphor nodded. “You’re right, sheriff,” he said. “The only way he could get in was for someone to let him in through the kitchen. That is, Mr. Winch, Mrs. Winch or Horace. Now which one of you was it?”
“I certainly didn’t let any pig in,” said Mr. Winch sullenly. “Neither did I,” said Mrs Winch and Horace together.
“We have only your word for it that he was a pig,” said Mr. Camphor. “And, as I told you, he said when we caught him that he was your nephew.”
“I haven’t got a nephew,” said Mr. Winch.
“Pigs and nephews and kitchen doors,” said Mr. Camphor. “I’m all mixed up. What do you make of it, sheriff?”
“Well, sir,” the sheriff replied, “this is what I make of it. We know there was a burglar, because you saw him. We know he got away, because he ain’t here. We know he had to leave by the kitchen door, and we know the Winches saw him when he left.
“Now they say he was a pig. But if he was a pig when he went out, he must have been a pig when he came in. Ain’t that so?”
Mr. Camphor and Bannister nodded agreement.
“All right. But the Winches say no pig came in, and I think that part of their story is true, because they certainly wouldn’t have let Freddy or any other pig come into the house. Yet, whoever your burglar was, he had to come in through the kitchen door, so they must have let him in. Well, let’s see—where was I? I’m getting kind of mixed up myself.”
“I see what you’re getting at, sheriff,” said Mr. Camphor. “The only way for the burglar to get in was for the Winches to let him in. They wouldn’t have let in a pig, or anybody they didn’t know. So they must have let in some burglar that they knew, and then let him out again. And they lied about his being a pig, in order to cast more suspicion on Freddy.”
The sheriff said: “That’s right. I couldn’t have put it clearer myself. And so I think, sir, I’d better take the three of them down to the jail.”
“You can’t do that,” protested Mr. Winch, who was beginning to perspire. “We ain’t done anything.”
“Ain’t you?” said the sheriff mildly. “Well, then you ain’t got anything to be afraid of. But until we get this straightened out, I’m going to take the three of you down and hold you as accessories before, during, and after the fact, as well as on suspicion of contempt, prevarication, tellin’ fairy stories, and just common ordinary lyin’ to the lawfully elected sheriff of this county. And I shall hold you there pending trial before a suitable court on the charge of burglary in the first, second and third degrees, with complications as hereinbefore stated, on information supplied by Mr. C. Jimson Camphor, hereinafter to be known as the party of the first part, his heirs and assigns forever.”
“Golly!” Jinx whispered. “I wish Charles could have heard that!”
The sheriff had found that the language of the law is pretty terrifying to guilty people, and so in cases like this he always used it. But there is one great trouble with the language of the law. The sentences are so long that very few people except judges can get through them without stopping to take a breath in the middle. And of course this spoils their impressiveness. So in his last sentence, the sheriff had not stopped, but had used up all his breath right down to the bottom of his lungs, with the result that he was unable to conclude, as he should, by glaring sternly at the culprits. He merely sank down in a chair, whooping and gulping to get his breathing started again.
But the Winches were scared all right. Mr. Winch fumbled nervously with his moustache, and Horace began to snivel, and Mrs. Winch to tremble. They shot little nervous glances at one another, and then Mrs. Winch stepped forward.
“I’ve had enough of this,” she said. “I’ve stood between you and the law, Zebedee Winch, and I’ve covered up your goings on and lied for you to Mr. Camphor, but there’s one thing I ain’t going to do for you—I ain’t going to jail. Now, Mr. Sheriff, and Mr. Camphor, sir, I don’t know anything about what happened today. I didn’t see anybody go into the house, and I did see a pig go out. But I’m going to tell you the truth about what happened when my husband first came here. That pig never stole anything—”
Mr. Winch, who had been staring at his wife with growing anger and consternation, suddenly grabbed Horace by the arm, and before anybody could stop him, made a dash for the door. He shot through it with the boy trailing behind like the tail of a comet, and was gone.
“Quick, Jinx—the gates! We must close them!” said Freddy. And the two animals started down the stairs, followed by the mice. But they had no flashlight, and though Freddy wouldn’t have minded falling down the stairs to save time, they didn’t want to be heard, so they had to feel their way. And when they had got out of the passage, and were running up from the creek bank to the gates, they saw Mr. Winch’s dilapidated car just going between the gateposts.
The rain had stopped, and through the ragged clouds in the west, the low sun shone out, turning the trees and the bushes and the car and Mr. Winch, and even Horace, to gold. And the car gave a jerk and a sputter, and bounded off down the road.
Freddy sat down on the grass, although it was still wet from the rain. “Oh, dear,” he said, “now they’ll get away, and I’ll never be able to prove to Mr. Camphor that I didn’t steal his stuff.”
“Oh, don’t be so gloomy,” said the cat. “After Mrs. Winch tells him the truth—Hey, look!” he exclaimed suddenly, and began waving his paws frantically at the sky.
Freddy looked up, and there was the eagle, Breckenridge, cruising along just above the treetops. When he saw them, he banked sharply and lit on a dead branch just over their heads. “Ah, Frederick,” he said in his harsh voice. “And you, my feline friend. I trust that everything proceeds to your satisfaction in the halls of the wealthy Camphor? I have been searching for you.”
“Ah, Frederick, and my feline friend.”
“Did you take the mice down to the Winches’? Did they find anything?” they asked excitedly.
“All was as you, with your truly remarkable foresight, had predic
ted,” said the eagle, who always spoke in this very flowery fashion. “Your young friends, with a fortitude out of all proportion to their size, descended by way of the chimney. They found much to criticize in the housekeeping, I am given to understand. But after a prolonged search they discovered large quantities of plunder—much of it merely heaped up in the bathtub. Which indicates quite sufficiently, I feel, the character of this Mr. Winch and his offspring.”
“Yes,” said Freddy, “they don’t use the tub much, I guess. But that’s swell, Breckenridge. And we must—” He stopped, realizing that the eagle would expect him to reply in the same high-flown manner. “I speak not only for myself,” he said, “but for all my friends when I say that we are eternally grateful for your ungrudging and exceptionally able assistance in this difficult matter. And your revered aunt, I trust, is much improved?”
“Thank you,” said Breckenridge. “She is indeed completely her old self again. Quite capable, as she says in her quaint way, of tearing a rabbit with the best of them. But who is this that approaches at such reckless speed?” he exclaimed. “Ah, the estimable sheriff.” And indeed it was the sheriff’s car which now came puffing through the gate.
Freddy went out into the road and waved, and the sheriff slowed down. “Hop in,” he said. “Thought you must be around somewhere, with all this talk of pigs.” And as they clambered aboard he stepped on the accelerator. “Got to catch Winch if I can. Hold on tight.”
This instruction was hardly necessary, for the sheriff’s car was even older than Mr. Winch’s and, though not as noisy, much slower.
Breckenridge rose from the branch with a lazy sweep of his great wings. “I will seek to detain the fugitive,” he shouted, and in no time at all he was out of sight.
Freddy told the sheriff what the mice had discovered. “But you’ll never catch him in this car,” he said. “He’s got a good start already, and he can get home and load the stuff into his car and get away before we get there.”
“Can’t do more’n try,” said the sheriff.
They crawled up a long hill at five miles an hour. At the top, the sheriff let out the clutch and they coasted down the other side.
“Look!” said Jinx.
Ahead of them the road ran straight across a wide valley, and halfway across they saw Mr. Winch’s car, bounding along at what even at that distance seemed greater speed than they were making, even downhill.
“Oh dear!” said Freddy; and then he said, “Oh gracious!” For a black speck from high up among the torn rags of the storm shot suddenly earthward, aiming for the Winch car. It came down like an arrow, seemed almost to touch the car, which swerved dangerously, then swooped up again.
“He’s dive-bombing them!” Jinx exclaimed. “Boy, what a sight!”
Three times the eagle dove, and the third time the car shot right across the road and jounced into the ditch and stopped.
When Freddy and Jinx and the sheriff came up, Mr. Winch and Horace were still sitting in their car. They hadn’t tried to escape, and for a very good reason. Breckenridge was perched on the top, just over the windshield.
“O.K., sheriff,” said Mr. Winch bitterly. “I’ll go quietly, if you’ll just drive that trained buzzard of yours off. He darn near scalped me.”
The sheriff thanked the eagle, who said, not at all, he was only too happy to oblige the law, and when he had flown off, Mr. Winch and Horace were transferred to the back seat of the sheriff’s car and they started on.
Mr. Winch was at first inclined to be belligerent. The sheriff had nothing on him, he said. “And I guess you see now,” he said, “that we were telling the truth about this pig. He was in the house all right.”
Freddy started to say something, but the sheriff nudged him and said, “Where he was or where he wasn’t has nothing to do with the case. Nothing was stolen today, so even if he had been in the house, which he doesn’t admit, there’s no charge against him.”
Mr. Winch continued to bluster, but when the sheriff, instead of going on towards Centerboro and the jail, drove up the road where he lived and where the stolen goods were parked, he got pretty nervous. And when finally, inside the house, he was confronted with all the things he had taken from Mr. Camphor, he broke down and confessed. And the sheriff drove him and Horace to the jail and locked him up, and then drove the animals back to the farm.
Chapter 15
In the pale dawn light of the next morning, Charles, the rooster, hopped down from the fence, after he had crowed three times to wake everybody up and get the work of the farm started, and walked over towards the pigpen. Usually at this time he went back to the hen house where, if Henrietta was out getting breakfast, he could sometimes find an empty perch on which he could snooze for another hour or two undisturbed. But this morning he had a scheme. I guess nobody will be surprised to learn that it was a scheme by which he hoped to get together an audience to listen to one of his speeches.
He rapped on the door with his beak—tap, tap, tap.
He heard the bed creak, and a sleepy voice said, “Go away; I’m busy.”
“Oh, get up! Get up!” said Charles impatiently. “You ought to be ashamed to lie there in bed when everybody else has been up for hours.”
There was a sound of movement inside, then the door opened and Freddy stood there rubbing his eyes. “If you’ve been up for hours, I’ll eat my Webster’s Dictionary,” he said. “Leaf by leaf.” Then he yawned. “Eeeeee-yaw! Might not be bad, at that,” he said, “if you put on plenty of sugar and cream. Well, come in. What’s poisoning your mind so early in the morning?”
“I’ve got an idea, Freddy—a great idea,” said Charles. “After you went to bed early last night Jinx was telling us all about those Winches and Mr. Camphor and—well, this is what I thought. Why don’t you invite all the animals to a lecture tonight? You tell ’em what happened—it’s as exciting as anything! You can type out a notice and post it up—something like this: ‘Free Lecture Tonight in the Barn. The Inside Story of the Great Camphor Case.’ No, that isn’t good. ‘Among the Savage Winches of Our Northern Frontier.’ That’ll get ’em out. ‘By Freddy, the Intrepid Explorer.’ Eh? How’s that? Maybe you could even charge admission.”
Freddy had sat down in his big chair, and he continued to yawn without paying a great deal of attention. “Yeah?” he said indifferently. “And what’s the rest of it?”
“The rest of it?” Charles repeated.
“Yes. Where do you come in?”
“Oh—me!” Charles waved a deprecatory claw. “I’d just—well, I’d just introduce you. Give you a good send-off, you know.”
“Doesn’t seem to me I need much of an introduction to most of the animals on this farm,” said Freddy. “Having lived here all my life. And then, I know your introductions, rooster. Meeting begins at eight. Singing the national anthem: eight to eight-ten. Introduction of principal speaker by Charles: eight-ten to ten-twenty-nine. Lecture: ten-twenty-nine to ten-thirty. Lights out: ten-thirty. No, no, my boy. You call your meeting and make your own speech and lecture and all of it. I’ve got too much to do today to bother, anyway.”
“But nobody will come if I’m the only one that’s going to talk,” Charles protested.
“That’s why I won’t go and give a lecture,” said Freddy. And as Charles only looked puzzled, he said, “Oh, figure that out for yourself.”
Charles looked rather unhappy. “What’s the matter with my speeches anyway, Freddy?” he asked. “They’re good—I know they’re good. People cheer and clap when I make ’em. And yet, they never want to come hear ’em.”
“Well,” said Freddy, “I guess the trouble is that it’s so easy for you to make a speech that you never bother to try to have something to say. You use fine big words and beautiful figures of speech. But you’ve heard the saying, ‘Fine words butter no parsnips,’ haven’t you?”
“Pooh!” said Charles. “Who likes parsnips?”
“But the trouble is,” said Freddy, “that all your fine words
are just decorations around big pieces of nothing. One of your speeches is like a beautiful frame without any picture in it. It’s like a beautiful gold dish without any ice cream in it. It’s like—”
“I guess you’re making a speech yourself, aren’t you?” said Charles sourly.
“Yeah, I am at that,” the pig replied. “It kind of creeps up on you, doesn’t it? And I’ve got to go, too. Got to get up to Camphor’s this morning.” Then he looked at his crestfallen friend. “Cheer up, Charles. I’d give my bottom dollar to be able to speak as well as you do. That’s the trouble. You’re too good. So good you can even talk about nothing and make it sound all right. The thing for you to do is, be sure you’re going to talk about something. Then they’ll come from miles around to hear you.”
As he saw Charles walk away across the barnyard with his tailfeathers drooping disconsolately, Freddy felt a little sorry that he had been so frank. But there was no time to do anything about it now. He had a plan to carry out, and he must get going.
He picked up a big beef bone that he had begged from Mrs. Bean, but just as he was going out of the door he felt a tickle in his right ear, and Mr. Webb’s voice said, “Got a minute. Freddy? I want your advice. I started down from the cow barn at two this morning, to catch you before you left, but I got held up. Deputation of squash bugs came over to pledge allegiance. Of course I had to give ’em the oath. So I’m a little late.”
“I’ve got to take this bone up to Johnny,” said Freddy. “Why don’t you come along? We can talk on the way.”
“Fine,” said the spider. “Splendid. Just so I can get word to mother—so she won’t worry. She’s kind of a worrier, Mrs. Webb is.”
On the way up to the woods Freddy hailed a rabbit and sent him off with a message to Mrs. Webb. Then as he trotted along he listened to the spider’s story.
The Webbs had really done a splendid, patriotic job. Using moths and dragonflies, and occasionally a bird, they had flown over most of the township, organizing and delivering speeches. “You’d be amazed, Freddy, to know how much you can do when you get started. We’ve trained fifty organizers who go out and speak at different farms, and with their help two hundred and eighteen farms have been canvassed, and between eighty-nine and ninety million bugs have pledged themselves not to eat vegetables for the duration.”
Freddy and Mr. Camphor Page 11
