Mr. Webb spoke first. The agreement was, he said, that he would first speak for five minutes, and then Zero would speak for five minutes. After that, each would have another five minutes to answer the other’s arguments. “But as you know,” he said, “I am no silver-tongued orator. I believe in the work which I have been doing, I believe that with your cooperation we can make a great contribution to the war effort. But there are others who can explain my reasons for believing that better than I can. And I have asked one such person to speak here in my place tonight. I think he needs no introduction to most of you. And in order not to waste what remains of my first five minutes, I will now turn the meeting over to him.”
A row of fireflies ranged along the branch of the tree which overhung the audience turned on their lights at this and revealed Charles perched there.
“My friends,” said the rooster, “the question before us tonight seems to be whether, as my friend Webb claims, it is your patriotic duty to give up eating vegetables for the duration, or whether, as that rabble-rousing nuisance, Zero, asserts, it is all silly nonsense.”
At this point he was interrupted. Zero, buzzing angrily, flew into the megaphone, knocking Mr. Webb off his feet, and shouted: “Who says I’m a nuisance? What kind of a debate is that? What right has this long-legged feather duster to stick his beak into this meeting anyway?” And he went on like this for a minute or two.
But the audience didn’t like it. “Shut up!” they shouted. “Throw him out!” And those that could hiss, hissed. And Zero, who was no fool, saw that he was just making himself unpopular, so he stopped talking. But he stayed inside the megaphone.
“My hysterical opponent,” Charles resumed, “has now used up one minute of the five allotted to him. I should like to point out to him that in a political debate of this nature, calling names is entirely permissible. He will have four minutes at the end of my speech in which to call me all the names he can think of, and if he can’t think of enough, I will be glad to lend him some of those I have thought up for him; for I assure you, my friends, that I could call him unpleasant names from now to midnight—and all of them would be true.”
The audience laughed at this, and Zero buzzed angrily, but Charles went on.
“However, my friends, this fly, this sour-faced, buzzing nitwit, is of no importance. What is important tonight is the facts. And let me give you a few.” Whereupon, for the first time in his career as a speaker, Charles attempted to back up his oratory with facts and figures. He gave the number of tons of vegetables which the Victory Gardens of New York State were expected to produce. Then he gave, in ounces, the amount which the average bug would eat during the summer, and multiplying that by seventy trillion, the estimated number of vegetable eating bugs in the state, arrived at the amount of destruction which bugs would do to the crop. Of course it is doubtful if any of his audience understood his figures, for bugs are not much good at arithmetic; nevertheless his show of knowledge made a great impression. He stopped speaking amid universal applause.
Then Zero took the platform. All these figures, he said, didn’t mean a thing. “How does this smart-aleck rooster know that there are seventy trillion bugs in New York State?” he demanded. “Has he counted them? Has anybody counted them? Ridiculous I Do you know, my friends, how long it would take merely to count up to seventy trillion? Hundreds and hundreds of years! No, no, my friends, you are not as gullible as that!
“And let me ask you this: why, if these figures are any good, doesn’t old Webb give them to you himself? Why does he get this loud-mouthed bunch of feathers, this bird who can’t even fly, to speak for him? I will tell you. It is because he is ashamed to come before you with such a lot of idiotic statements. For even a spider, we must suppose, has some small measure of self-respect. Again I say to you: no! There is no sense to be found in any of this stuff.”
And then he went on to attack Charles’s character. Some of the things he said, Freddy thought, were rather good. Charles, he said, was nothing but a feathered alarm clock, and not even a good one—a false alarm, rather. He had a fine loud voice, but so had a drum, so had an empty barrel. The emptier a thing was, the louder the sound it made. And so on.
Freddy was pleased, and somewhat surprised, to see how well Charles kept his temper. He clucked indignantly a few times at some of the meaner digs, but until Zero’s five minutes were up he didn’t say a word.
But when his turn came, he tore into the fly with all the eloquence at his command. His audience would know, he said, how much weight to give to the words of a multiple-eyed loafer who had never done an honest day’s work in his life. “He talks of emptiness,” said Charles. “He compares me to barrels and drums. But I ask you, my friends, to consider his name. Zero! Nothing, surrounded by a small black line! How well it fits him! How perfectly it describes him! And yet it is he—this flying cipher, this bumbling incompetent who will one day meet a deserved fate at the business end of a fly swatter it is he who dares to tell you that your patriotism is ridiculous and useless.” He lowered his voice dramatically. “But, my friends, you are too clever to be taken in by such empty tirades. Whatever my seditious and deluded opponent may say to the contrary, we are still all good Americans.
“Are we not?” he shouted suddenly, and in his claw appeared a small American flag, which he had borrowed from Mrs. Bean, and which he now waved above his head.
The audience broke into wild cheering. It was plain to everybody that Zero had lost the debate; it was plain even to Zero, for instead of coming forward for the five minutes of speech now allotted to him, he buzzed down among the audience, knocking the smaller bugs right and left.
“I’ll show you who’s boss around here!” he cried shrilly. “No spider is going to run this show, and no silly rooster either!” And he skated around wildly among the terrified audience, who ran and hopped and crawled for cover as fast as they could.
Freddy had rather expected something like this. The trouble with Zero, he realized, wouldn’t end with the debate, even if the fly were defeated. After this, Mr. Webb would never be able to hold a peaceful meeting anywhere on the farm. Stern measures were called for if the patriotic program was to be saved. And fortunately Freddy was prepared to take them.
“Hey, Zero,” he called. “Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?”
The fly paused and looked up. “Ha, pig!” he exclaimed. “I told you we’d meet again, didn’t I? All right, let’s see what you can do.” And he rose and circled above Freddy’s head. “I bet I make you yell uncle!”
Freddy just laughed. “With that weak little sting of yours? Pooh, you couldn’t even make a mouse jump!”
Now if there is one thing a horsefly prides himself on, it is his ability to bite. And indeed his bite is nothing to laugh at. Even a horse will jump and kick when a horsefly bites him.
“Go on, fly,” Freddy said. “Light right on my nose, and then do your worst. I’m going to show you up, you big blowhard!”
Freddy was lying down with his nose along the ground, but close to his nose, one on each side, were Elmo and Waldo. “Oho!” said Zero. “Well, you asked for it, pig.” And he laughed his unpleasant laugh and settled right on the end of Freddy’s nose. And the toads, who were squatting down under the tangle of grass stems, he never saw at all.
… and settled right on the end of Freddy’s nose.
Freddy clenched his teeth. “Do your stuff,” he said, and Zero laughed again.
“Don’t you worry,” he said menacingly.
But of course Freddy’s remark had been addressed to the toads, who he hoped would surely do their stuff before Zero got to work. And they did. Flick—flick! their two tongues shot out like two electric sparks … and the fly vanished.
Even though Freddy was so close to them he didn’t know which one had caught Zero. The fly had been there—and then he had vanished.
The audience had been craning their necks and climbing on top of one another to see what had happened. And when nothing h
appened, they thought that the fly had given up and flown away, and they began to yell and make fun of him. For none of them had seen the toads.
Freddy didn’t want them to see the toads, for the presence of a toad at a bug party can easily start a panic. But Charles almost gave the trick away. For he flapped his wings for attention, and said: “And that, my friends, is the end of Zero. So perish all traitors!”
“Yes,” said Freddy quickly, “that is the end of him. And now, Charles, since you have unquestionably won the debate, perhaps you have a few more words to say.”
And as all eyes were again turned towards the rooster, he got up, and the toads, without being seen, hopped after him down to the pigpen.
Chapter 17
Freddy had been undecided as to whether he should go back to take his job with Mr. Camphor again or not. But the next morning Mr. Camphor himself drove into the yard. And he apologized so handsomely in the presence of the entire barnyard that Freddy decided to go back with him. So he said goodbye to his friends, and he and Elmo and Waldo got into the back seat of the car, and they drove off.
Elmo was in the best of spirits, but Waldo wasn’t feeling very well. The corners of his wide mouth seemed to turn down more than usual, and he kept swallowing every minute or so, and after a while he got the hiccups.
“Darned fly!” he grumbled. “Don’t know why I ever agreed to catch him in the first place!”
“Oh, it was you that got him, was it?” said Freddy. “Well, I’m pretty grateful, Waldo, and so is Webb.”
“That don’t make my stomach feel any better,” said Waldo.
So Freddy didn’t say any more.
Freddy had lunch with Mr. Camphor in the big dining room, and during the meal nothing was said about business. Bannister, who waited on them, suggested a number of proverbs which they discussed. They found that it was true that “You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” for they tried it out several times on a large chocolate cake that Mrs. Winch had baked for dessert. Indeed, they tried it out so thoroughly that there was none left for Bannister, who remarked rather glumly that apparently he couldn’t have it or eat it either.
After lunch they went down to where Mr. Winch and Horace had been set to work cleaning up the houseboat. They stood on the bank and watched them for a while. And then Mr. Camphor said:
“I’m putting you in charge of those two, Freddy. They will mow the lawn and rake leaves and do whatever work is necessary to keep the place looking nice. You won’t have any trouble with them, for their jail sentence has only been suspended, and they know that if you complain about them, the sheriff will come up and take them away.
“Now there’s one other thing I want to speak to you about, and that’s that portrait.”
“Let me tell you about that, Mr. Camphor,” said Freddy. And then he told him the whole story, about finding the secret passage, and the rats, and how later he had gone in the house to try to frame Mr. Winch, and had been caught as a burglar.
Mr. Camphor wasn’t as much surprised as Freddy had thought he would be. “I had an idea something like that had happened,” he said. “But what I wanted to say was: I’ve been up and looked at those portraits. I felt pretty bad when I saw what the rats had done. But you did so well with the one you repaired that I wondered if you wouldn’t want to tackle the others? Of course I wouldn’t want them all painted with their vizors down, and of course you couldn’t anyway, because most of them aren’t in armor. What do you think you could do?”
Freddy said he thought he could fix them. He’d look them over …
They were interrupted by a terrible splash and, looking around, saw that Horace who had been scrubbing paint on the railing, had fallen into the creek. The water wasn’t deep, but even half an inch of water would have terrified Horace, and Freddy ran down and pulled him out, while Mr. Winch looked on without much interest.
Horace was all right, but of course he was wet all over, which was something that hadn’t happened to him in a long long time. And he sat down on the bank and burst into tears.
“Well,” said Mr. Camphor, “I have to get back to Washington tonight, so I must get along. I’ll be up again in another month. Goodbye, and if anything goes wrong, just call the sheriff.” And he shook hands with Freddy and left.
Freddy went over to Horace. “Come on,” he said. “Come into the houseboat and we’ll dry you off.”
So Freddy took him into the bathroom, and while he was working over him with a towel, Horace caught sight of himself in the mirror. “Why!” he exclaimed. “I—why, I look real nice!” For of course he had never really seen himself before; all he had seen was the dirt on his face.
“Of course you look nice,” Freddy said. “And you’ll look nicer when I’ve got through with you.” And he soaped a washcloth, without letting Horace see what he was doing, and washed the boy’s face.
Well, Horace was delighted. He couldn’t stop admiring himself in the mirror, but finally he went outdoors again. And Mr. Winch saw him.
“Who—who’s this?” he demanded. He peered sharply at the boy. “It’s not—it can’t be—Horace?”
“Sure, it’s me, pa,” said Horace. “Don’t I look nice?”
“Nice!” exclaimed Mr. Winch in horror. “You look—you look terrible!” And he put his hands over his face and sank down in a chair. “All my teaching!” he moaned. “All the trouble I’ve had in bringing you up to be a true son of your father! And what have you done? You’ve thrown it away for a cake of soap! You’ve sold your birthright for a lot of cold water!”
Nobody said anything, and pretty soon Freddy remarked that Mr. Winch was peeking through his fingers. And after a little longer he took his hands down entirely and stared at his son. And as he stared, he seemed to be getting angry, and at last he burst out.
“So!” he said. “Trying to shame your pore old dad, are you? His ways aren’t good enough for you, eh? Want to have a clean shirt every Sunday, I expect!”
“I’m not trying to shame you, pa,” said Horace. “It’s just—just—I didn’t know that being clean was so comfortable.”
“Why don’t you try it, Mr. Winch?” said Freddy. “Of course it takes a lot of nerve. Soap, now. That’s something that’s pretty hard to face. Horace is a pretty brave boy.”
“He ain’t any braver’n his pa, I should hope,” said Mr. Winch aggressively.
“Well, I don’t know. I didn’t use to think so, but—”
“Oh,” said Mr. Winch, “you think I can’t take it, hey? Well, we’ll see about that.” And he rushed into the bathroom.
“My goodness,” Freddy thought, “that’s the same trick I worked with Waldo. Maybe Mr. Winch will be just as easy as that.”
And oddly enough, that was about the way it worked out. In a week Horace and Mr. Winch had been cleaned up so that they were quite presentable. Even Mrs. Winch was impressed.
“I don’t know how you did it,” she said to Freddy. “I guess I got to change my mind about pigs. Not that you’ll ever get Zebedee Winch really clean. He’s what I might call just naturally sort of dingy anyway. But I’m certainly grateful about Horace. Maybe we can make something of him after all.”
After this it wasn’t so hard to get Horace interested in painting. Freddy had Mr. Winch bring all the pictures down from the attic, and when the holes had been patched he set to work on them. He let Horace help him, a little at first, but as the boy showed an unexpected talent for painting, Freddy eventually turned some of the work entirely over to him. Mr. Winch objected a good deal in the beginning, but Freddy had found out how to manage him now, and soon he began to be proud of the boy’s ability. A chip of the old block, he said; and Freddy agreed.
When Mr. Camphor returned at the end of the month there were six finished portraits to show him. Mr. Camphor and Bannister examined them together.
“What do you think, Bannister?” Mr. Camphor asked at length.
“Well, sir,” said Bannister, “anybody would know whose ancestors they
are, all right. Quite a remarkable resemblance to you in all of them, if I may say so, sir.”
“If you may say so! If you may say so! Ha, you’d better not say anything else!” Mr. Camphor exclaimed. “Why, confound it, Bannister, they’re the image of me! They don’t merely look like my ancestors; they are my ancestors! They must be.” He stared at them with a sort of delighted amazement. “Seems impossible. But it’s true.” He turned to Freddy. “You know, they’re just a lot of old portraits I bought because I thought it would be fun to name them and hang them up as my ancestors. I didn’t want to fool anybody with them. But now—well, I’d be fooling people if I said they weren’t my ancestors now. Why, look at the Reverend Wilberforce. Ha! Isn’t that me to the life?” He was quite pink with pleasure.
“Why, look at the Reverend Wilberforce.”
Freddy didn’t quite know what to say. Since most of the faces had been gnawed away, he hadn’t had any idea what they had looked like, and so when he had put the new faces in he had just copied the big crayon portrait of Mr. Camphor which stood on the easel in the houseboat. With the result that they were rather like the row of photographs that he had noticed when he first took the houseboat over. They were just portraits of Mr. Camphor in different fancy costumes.
But it didn’t seem quite fair not to tell Mr. Camphor the truth, so Freddy told him.
And Mr. Camphor was delighted. He thought it was a wonderful joke, and insisted on hanging them at once in the dining room. And then he went from one to another, standing in front of them with a small mirror in which he compared his own features with those painted on the canvas, and laughing delightedly. He could hardly be coaxed away from them to eat his dinner.
Freddy and Mr. Camphor Page 13
