“But if you won’t say anything to me,” said Freddy, “how can I find out what is the matter?”
“Will you kindly tell your friend,” said Eeny, addressing Mrs. Wiggins, “that he knows perfectly well what is the matter.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Wiggins, and turning to Freddy: “The mice feel that you know perfectly well what is the matter.”
“Oh well, yes,” said Freddy; “I do, I suppose. I mean, it’s because I’ve gone into the anti-mouse business, isn’t it? But my goodness, these mice in Centerboro aren’t like you boys. They used to be pretty well behaved. They stuck to crumbs and no squeaking after ten P.M. and no chewing the furniture and so on. But this last year they’ve just sort of gone wild. There’s always room for a few well-behaved mice in a house. But now there’s hardly room in the houses for the people that own them.”
“Aw, Mrs. Wiggins,” said Eeny, “tell your friend that that’s all a lot of baloney. Those poor Centerboro people,” he said sarcastically; “my heart bleeds for them! Being pushed around and crowded out of their homes by a lot of ferocious mice! But of course we know why he’s doing it. It’s the money. Anything for a few dollars. Friendship, honesty, decency—nothing means anything except piling up some more dirty money!”
“Oh, baloney yourself!” said Freddy crossly. “Sure I want the money. And you know why. You know the trouble Mr. Boomschmidt is in.”
“And how about the trouble our Aunt Sophie is in?” demanded Quik. “Ask him about that, Mrs. Wiggins. She’s lived in Centerboro all her life, at Miss Halsey’s. Always been a quiet, unassuming little body and never did any harm to anybody. Sends us cards every Christmas and on our birthdays, as regular as clockwork. And now in her old age I suppose she’s to be driven out into the snow to starve.”
“It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it is!” Cousin Augustus shouted. “Why doesn’t this big bully pick on dogs? Or cows? Why persecute the mice? I’ll tell you why: because mice are small and weak and can’t fight back. Sure, never mind the rights and wrongs of the case; bring in a gang of roughneck cats and we’ll have a lot of fun pushing the mice around!” Cousin Augustus made quite a speech. He waved his paws around and shouted like a senator, and once he forgot that he wasn’t speaking to Freddy and turned right around and faced the pig, until Eeny put a paw on his shoulder and swung him back towards Mrs. Wiggins. Freddy couldn’t get a word in edgeways. But at last Cousin Augustus ran down, and Freddy said:
“There’s something in what you mice say, no doubt. As for your Aunt Sophie, she is all right, because Miss Halsey hasn’t hired us to de-mouse her house yet. But let me point out a few facts to you. Those mice in Centerboro are really driving people right out of their houses. And something had to be done. If I could have thought of any other way, without bringing in the cats—”
The mice all began talking at once, but Freddy shouted at them. “Shut up! What’s the use of sitting around calling names? Let’s get an independent viewpoint; let’s hear what Robert and the cows think.”
The four animals appealed to looked at one another. Then they went over to the other side of the barn and held a conference. They muttered together for a while, and then came back and Robert said: “Offhand, we can’t think of any solution that will satisfy both parties. We don’t think the mice ought to be allowed to run wild in Centerboro. On the other hand, we don’t think they ought to be driven out into the cold and the snow. We have only one suggestion: that a fact-finding committee be appointed, one member to be selected by Freddy, one by the mice, and a third impartial member to be agreed on by both sides.”
“A good idea,” said Freddy. “I’ll select myself for my representative.”
“And I’ll select myself,” said Cousin Augustus.
“Then I’d suggest,” said Mrs. Wogus, “that for your third member someone like Old Whibley be named. He’s honest, and wise, and he won’t take six months to come to a decision.”
After some arguing, this was agreed to, and as it was important that some decision be reached before the cats raided any more houses, Freddy, instead of going into Centerboro the next morning, set out on his skis for the woods where Old Whibley lived. To keep himself warm during the conference he wore an old tweed suit of Mr. Bean’s, and Cousin Augustus rode in the pocket.
Chapter 10
It was pretty hard going up across the pasture towards the woods, for although the slope wasn’t steep, there was an icy crust on the snow, and Freddy was not really an expert on skis. He dug in his ski poles and puffed and panted like a steam engine, and indeed he looked a good deal like a steam engine, for with every puff a little plume of white steam blew out of his nose into the frosty air. Cousin Augustus, who was riding in Freddy’s pocket, stuck his nose out from time to time to see what progress was being made, but he didn’t say anything because he still wasn’t speaking to Freddy.
When he got up to the duck pond Freddy stopped to rest. The pond was frozen solid under its thick snow blanket, and the little house where the ducks lived was just a bump on the edge of the pond. But a little path went into a tunnel at one side of the bump which Freddy knew went to the front door, and a faint haze of smoke above the bump showed that Uncle Wesley was keeping a good fire up in the stove which Mr. Bean had put in the duck house two years ago. Alice and Emma came down to the barnyard nearly every day, but Uncle Wesley felt the cold, and so he stayed home and stoked the fire.
“I suppose we ought to stop in and call,” Freddy said. “But maybe we’d better not. You know how Uncle Wesley is: once he gets talking it’s a day’s work to get away from him.”
Cousin Augustus didn’t say anything, just gave a couple of mouse snorts and ducked back into the pocket.
“Ho, hum!” said Freddy. “You’re not very good company, Gus.” He picked up his ski poles and went on.
He had got up to the edge of the woods when a faint sound made him stop and listen. At the same moment Cousin Augustus poked his head out of the pocket and listened too.
“Did you hear something?” Freddy asked.
Cousin Augustus just gave him a dirty look and went on listening.
“Oh, all right,” said Freddy disgustedly. “Be stubborn then. I just asked a civil question.”
Just then the sound came again. It was a faint flat little voice, and it said: “Help! Help!”
“Where’d it come from?” Freddy asked. “You’ve got better ears than I have, Gus.” And then as the mouse didn’t answer, he shrugged his shoulders and started down along the fence.
Cousin Augustus was determined not to speak to Freddy, but he didn’t see why he shouldn’t talk to himself. So he said to himself in a loud voice: “If this fool pig had any sense he’d climb the fence and look behind that big elm.” And then he answered himself and said: “Quite right, Augustus; that’s where the call came from. But of course it’s too much to expect of a great hulking stupid lummox like this Freddy that he’d ever get anything right.”
So Freddy climbed the fence, and sure enough, behind the elm he found a small brown duck, apparently entangled in a lot of snow-covered brushwood.
“Hey!” he said. “What’s the matter—what are you doing up here? Why, I know you; you belong to Zenas Witherspoon, over the hill.”
“Yes,” said the duck weakly. “I was just—er, taking a walk, and I got my foot caught, and before I could get free—well, I got so cold I couldn’t feel my feet, and then I didn’t know how to get loose.”
“I see,” said Freddy. “Taking a walk. Two miles from home. Admiring the view, no doubt. Of course, all you can see is our duck pond, but … H’m, aren’t you the fellow that sent that clever valentine to Alice and Emma?”
“If you want to get out of here, duck,” said Cousin Augustus, “you’d better make this pig a cash offer to help you. He isn’t as stupid as he sounds. He’s crazy about money, and he’s just working around to finding how much you’ve got. If you can’t pay, he’ll leave you here to freeze to death. Though probably he’ll
make a real sad poem about you afterwards, if that’s any consolation.”
“Oh, shut up!” said Freddy. “For two cents I’d dump you right out here, Gus. and let you do the freezing.”
This was an unwise remark, and Cousin Augustus took immediate advantage of it. “There, you see?” he said. “Two cents—that’s his price. For as little as two cents he’d throw an old friend out in the snow and let him freeze.”
“There, you see?” he said. “Two cents—that’s his price.”
Freddy didn’t say any more, but he leaned down and worked the duck’s feet loose from the entangling branches. But the duck’s toes were evidently frozen, for when he tried to walk he just fell over.
“Can’t take you over to Witherspoons’—it’s too far,” Freddy said. “I guess I’ll put you inside my coat and carry you down to the duck house.”
“Oh, dear!” said the duck. “Oh I don’t want to go down there! Couldn’t you—couldn’t you just leave me here?”
“Don’t be silly,” said the pig. “What’s your name?”
“Edward.”
“Well, Edward, cruel and vindictive as I am, I am not going to leave you up here to freeze, just to save you from the embarrassment of being brought face to face with the two good ladies who are the objects of your divided affection—”
“Making fun of a poor frozen duck!” put in Cousin Augustus, twitching his whiskers commiseratingly. “That’s what you can expect from this brute, Edward. Well, you have my sympathy.”
“Oh, dear; oh, dear!” Edward moaned, as Freddy tucked him inside his coat. “I shall die of shame; I shall simply die of shame!”
“Nonsense,” said Freddy. “What is there to be ashamed of? You sent Alice and Emma a very clever valentine. You stated—I presume sincerely—that you found them both very attractive, so attractive that you couldn’t decide which one you would like to marry.”
“Oh, I never said a word about marriage!” Edward protested. “Not a word! I wouldn’t presume—”
“Suit yourself,” said Freddy. “Probably neither one of them would have you, anyway. But at least you ought to make up your mind which one you prefer, and if you stay there for a few days, until you’re well enough to go home—”
“Stay there!” Edward interrupted. “You mean, trespass on their hospitality, push myself in—”
“I’m the one that’s pushing you in,” Freddy observed.
Edward was appalled at the idea. He was sure that Alice and Emma would think that getting his toes frozen was all a fake, just a pretext to get him inside their house as a guest. He moaned and lamented all the way down to the pond, begging Freddy to abandon him, to let him just quietly die without any fuss. Even Cousin Augustus got pretty fed up with him before Freddy poked his ski pole down the little tunnel and knocked with it at the ducks’ door.
There was an excited quacking under the snow, and pretty soon Uncle Wesley came bustling out. He was a fat, pompous little duck, greatly admired by his nieces, who thought he knew all the answers. Of course they didn’t put it just that way. They said he was a very profound thinker. Nobody else on the farm thought he knew much of anything.
“Well, my young friend, good morning,” he said. “Good gracious, what have you there?”
Freddy explained, and produced Edward, who was so embarrassed that he kept his eyes tight shut. “His toes are frozen,” Freddy said. “He’s in no condition to go home, and I thought—”
“Quite right, quite right,” said Uncle Wesley “Job for the girls. They’re fine nurses, you know. Alice! Emma!” he called. “Come out here.” Then he shivered. “Brrrrr! You’ll excuse me, Freddy; this air is a little sharp for my neuritis. The girls will see to this fellow.” And he hurried back into the house, as Alice and Emma came out.
They looked at Edward, who, with his eyes still closed, was being held upright by Freddy. Then they looked at each other.
“Why, Alice; I do believe it’s—”
“Ssssh! But it certainly is, sister! Dear me!” Alice giggled faintly.
“Are—are his eyes—” Emma began.
“Just bashful,” said Freddy. “He was hanging around—that is, he says he was taking a walk up above here and stayed out too long. Froze his toes.”
“Oh dear, the poor boy!” Emma quacked. “Can he—no, I see he’s too weak to walk. We’ll help him into the house. Alice, put his wing over your shoulder.”
Supported by his wings over the others’ shoulders, Edward was squeezed into the tunnel. Before they disappeared, Alice said: “We’ll take care of him. And thank you, Freddy.”
“Yes, Freddy,” said Emma. “Thank you very much.”
Freddy went on up into the woods. He knew the big tree, high up in which Old Whibley, the owl, had his nest; and when he came to it he rapped on the trunk with a ski pole. Almost at once a harsh voice called: “Stop that racket!” and looking up, Freddy saw the owl’s big square head at the door of the nest.
“Excuse me,” said the pig. “We’ve come up to see if you would be willing to act as chairman of a fact-finding committee on the mouse situation.”
“Certainly not,” said Old Whibley. “Fact-finding indeed! Have more facts now than I know what to do with. Why find more? If you want ’em, go find ’em yourself. I’ve no use for ’em.”
“Well, that’s just a name for the committee, really,” said Freddy. “Actually, we have all the facts. What we’d like to do is present them to you and have you act as judge.”
“I don’t want to find ’em and I don’t want ’em presented to me. I tell you I don’t care a hoot for all the facts there are. Not one hoot.” And he gave a hoot to show Freddy how little he cared.
“All right,” said the pig. “I suppose we’ll have to get Uncle Solomon, then; though we’d much rather have you.”
Uncle Solomon was a screech owl, and he was probably about the last person any of the animals would want to have as judge, because while he was very learned, he never cared much about the rights or wrongs of an argument. All he cared about was the argument itself. He loved arguing. He loved it so much that often if he found he was winning, he would change sides quickly and start agreeing with the people he had been talking against a minute before. It was bad having him against you, but it was almost worse having him on your side.
“Tcha!” said Old Whibley disgustedly. “You might as well ask the weathercock on the church steeple to be your judge. Get four different answers in ten minues.”
Freddy had only mentioned Uncle Solomon’s name in order to keep Whibley talking. If he could get the owl interested, he was sure he would take the case.
“Uncle Solomon is very wise,” he said.
“He knows a lot. ’Tain’t the same thing.”
“He’s an awful smart arguer.”
“Tcha! Argument ain’t wisdom. Take your Mr. Bean—he don’t ever argue. Doesn’t say hardly anything. Just decides what he wants done without any talk—snip, snap!—all decided. And he’s a wise man.”
“Oh, yes; he certainly is,” said Freddy.
“I guess so!” said the owl. “I guess so! And that’s what I say—arguing isn’t any good. Never convince anybody by argument. Just make ’em more set than ever.” He fluffed out his feathers and stared with his enormous yellow eyes at the pig. “Why don’t you get Mr. Bean to judge?”
“Well,” said Freddy, “we—we wanted you.”
“Tcha! Nonsense!” snapped Old Whibley. But he was pleased all the same. And in a minute he said: “Well, state your case. Haven’t got all day.”
So Freddy told him quickly about his anti-mouse campaign, and then Cousin Augustus came out and sat on Freddy’s shoulder and stated the case for the mice. When he had finished, Old Whibley asked some questions. Was there a head mouse in Centerboro—anybody in authority. Freddy said he didn’t think they were organized.
“Always easier to deal with an organization,” said the owl. “However … What do you figure would be the cost of food per day per m
ouse?”
“The what per what?” said Cousin Augustus, looking puzzled.
“I thought you had your facts!” Whibley snapped.
“He means, how many mice could you feed for a week on, say, a ten cent loaf of bread,” said Freddy.
“What’s that got to do with it?” Cousin Augustus said irritably. “My goodness, we come here for your help and you ask us riddles!”
“All right, all right,” said Old Whibley huffily. “If that’s the way you feel. I wash my claws of the whole affair.” And his head disappeared from the doorway.
“Now you’ve done it,” said Freddy. “Why couldn’t you answer him?”
“I didn’t come here to do arithmetic,” said the mouse.
“You came here to answer any questions Whibley asks you,” said Freddy. “That is, if you want his help in this business.”
“Well,” said Cousin Augustus slowly. “Only I didn’t see … Well, I suppose about twenty mice.” And then he called out the answer to the owl. And he said: “I’m sorry I was rude. I just couldn’t think—”
“Don’t try,” said Old Whibley, appearing again at his doorway. “You’re not used to it, and you’ll get us all mixed up. Got a pencil?”
Neither of them, of course, had one.
“Just have to do it in our heads then,” said the owl. “Won’t be easy. But first, how many mice do you figure there are in Centerboro, Freddy?”
Freddy said it was hard to tell. But he’d guess at least four thousand.
And how many people did he figure there were who would pay him five dollars to have their houses de-moused?
That was hard to tell, too, but Freddy would guess that there were five hundred.
“Say four hundred,” said the owl. “Makes our problem easier. Now you can expect to take in four hundred times five; that’s—h’m, ha! He scratched his ear. “How do you figure it, pig?”
Freddy took his ski pole and scratched the figures on the snow:
400
5
$2000
“Good,” said Whibley. “Tidy sum, two thousand dollars. But now, suppose you take that money, but instead of driving the mice outdoors, you rent a hall somewhere for ’em to live in, and feed ’em until spring. Say two months more. What would that cost you?”
Freddy the Pied Piper Page 8
