Freddy the Pied Piper

by Walter R. Brooks

  “My goodness, I don’t know,” said Freddy.

  “I didn’t suppose you did. But we can figure it. Now first you’ve got to rent a hall. I suppose a good tight barn would do. For two months. What would that cost?”

  “Twenty dollars,” said Cousin Augustus.

  “Sure of that figure?”

  “Yes, sir. At least, that’s what Mr. Bean paid one year for one of the Macy barns, when he wanted to store some extra hay.”

  “Ten dollars a month? I think your Mr. Bean got stung, but that’s his affair. Say twenty dollars then. Good. Now you’ve rented your hall. And that leaves you—”

  Freddy marked on the snow:

  $2000

  -20

  1800

  “Sure that’s right?” said Old Whibley. “Well now, if it costs ten cents to feed twenty mice for a week, how much will it cost to feed four thousand mice for two months?”

  Freddy saw what the owl was getting at, and he went to work with his ski pole. He was not a really good mathematician, and he covered all the snow within twenty yards of the tree, but he finally worked it out that if it cost ten cents to feed twenty mice for a week, it would cost twenty dollars to feed four thousand mice for the same time, and a hundred and sixty dollars to feed them for eight weeks. It took him some time, and once he got into fractions by mistake and had to stop and smooth the snow out and start over again. Then he put down:

  $1800

  -160

  1540

  which of course was wrong, but it was near enough, and Old Whibley didn’t notice it either.

  “My, that’s fine!” Freddy said. “I’ll have over $1500 for Mr. Boomschmidt, and the mice will be taken care of. If that’s agreeable to you, Gus.”

  Cousin Augustus said grumpily that it was better than nothing. At least the mice wouldn’t starve or freeze. “But at the best,” he said, “it’s nothing but a concentration camp. And you’re making a lot of money out of it. How about cheese twice a week?”

  “That’s all right,” said Freddy. “No reason why we couldn’t give them cheese, and an occasional cake, maybe, and even put on a little entertainment for them now and then. Only they’ll have to agree to stay in the barn—not go sneaking back into the houses.”

  “You get your barn,” said Cousin Augustus. “And then you call off your cats and take me and my brothers into Centerboro and let us arrange it.”

  Freddy said: “OK. I’ll turn my de-mousing orders over to you. You can go in instead of the cats, and move the mice out. But I’m going to keep my M.P.’s on for a while just the same, to patrol the town.”

  They argued about this for a while, but Freddy was determined, and at last the mouse agreed. They looked up to thank Old Whibley, but the owl had gone back inside and closed his door.

  Chapter 11

  The scheme Old Whibley had suggested worked out to the satisfaction of everyone concerned. Freddy found a barn he could rent on the edge of town and then he took Eek and Quik and Eeny and Cousin Augustus down, and sent them into the houses to sell their plan to the mice. With few exceptions, the town mice agreed to move into the barn and stay there till spring, for no sensible mouse is going to turn down three square meals a day, with cheese twice a week and no cats.

  Freddy could have moved the mice over into the barn quietly without any fuss, but that was not his way of doing things. So one day when he was all ready he ran big advertisements in the Bean Home News and the Centerboro paper. They read:

  THE PIED PIPER OF CENTERBORO

  Will free your town of mice

  Monday, at 2 P. M.

  WATCH FOR HIM! WAIT FOR HIM!

  Corner of Main and Elm

  2 P. M., Monday

  Don’t miss the big parade!

  By half past one that Monday, Main Street was jammed with spectators. Everybody in town was there, and the sheriff had even brought all the prisoners down from the jail to see the show. At five minutes of two Freddy appeared. His friend, Miss Peebles, who had a millinery store on Main Street (maybe you’ve seen the sign yourself: Harriet—Hats. Latest Paris Creations), had helped him with his costume. He had on a peaked hat with a peacock feather in it, and a long coat, sewn all over with tags of varicolored ribbon that fluttered as he moved. At two o’clock sharp he pulled out a tin fife that he had bought at the Busy Bee store and started up Main Street, tootling the first seven notes of Yankee Doodle—which was all of it he could play—and as he passed each house the mice came tumbling out and followed along behind him, dancing and squeaking. They were pretty excited, for few of them had ever been in a parade before. Some of them formed a conga line which wound up on to the sidewalk, and even went right up one side of the square bank building, and across the roof, and down on the other side. Eeny always said afterwards that the leader was his Aunt Sophie, but when they asked her she just said: “Certainly not!” and tossed her head. And I hardly think it was so, for Aunt Sophie was a quiet, retiring person, even for a mouse, and anyway she was much too old for that sort of thing.

  Of course some people who were afraid of mice were frightened. Old Mrs. Peppercorn was so scared that she swarmed right up the trellis on to Judge Willey’s porch, and they had to get the fire company to get her down. But she wasn’t hurt, and she said afterwards that she wouldn’t have missed the sight for anything. “And I wager I saw it better than anybody else in town,” she said.

  Freddy’s M.P.’s patrolled for a week, but as none of the mice seemed to want to get back into the houses, he withdrew them. He had no further use for the cats now, and as they were a noisy and quarrelsome crew he advertised that anyone that didn’t live in Centerboro could have one by calling for him, and he got rid of all of them in two days.

  Of course Freddy now had a lot of money. He had $1726. If it had been summertime, he would of course have kept it in his own bank, of which he was president. But the First Animal Bank was closed for the winter under a snowdrift seven feet deep, so he deposited it in the Centerboro bank.

  He hadn’t written to Mr. Boomschmidt before, because he didn’t want to say anything about getting the circus on the road until he was sure he could help. But now he wrote. He told about Leo and Jerry, and about the money he had earned, and he said that if Mr. Boomschmidt could get his animals together and wanted to take up the circus business again he would lend him the money. He would have sent a check for the whole amount right then, but he was afraid that Mr. Boomschmidt would not take it as a gift. That was why he spoke of lending it.

  In about ten days he got an answer:

  Dear friend Freddy:

  I take my pen in hand to reply to yours of the 26th inst. I am very glad you are well and all the other good friends at the Bean farm. I am happy that Leo and Jerry are with you and not in any trouble. We are all in good health here. As to what you propose, it would be quite a job to round up all our old performers. Hannibal and Louise are in the zoo in Washington, and Rajah is in Louisville, but most of the others are I don’t know where, though now and then I get a picture postcard from one or another from some distant point. Still, I suppose we could find some of them. The wagons and tents and everything are stored here and are all in good shape. Your old friend Bill Wonks is with me still, and Madame Delphine who told your fortune once, she says, and her daughter, Mlle. Rose, and of course my dear mother, who is still knitting me those fancy waistcoats—ha, ha, Freddy, you remember those waistcoats, I guess. Well, I tell you Freddy that is a pretty fine generous offer of yours to lend me that money, but good gracious Freddy suppose the circus did not do well and I could not pay you back? I know you would not care if I lost your money, but I would care, and so I am going to say no. But I tell you what I will do. I will go into partnership with you. You putting up the money, and I putting up the know-how and the equipment. How would you like to be a circus man? I think you would make a good one. You think it over Freddy and write me. If you say yes I can start getting things ready.

  Give my love to Leo and Jerry. I miss Leo a goo
d deal, and I suppose I must miss Jerry too, now I come to think of it. Hoping this finds you and all the good friends at the farm in good health as it leaves me,

  Sincerely your friend,

  Orestes Boomschmidt.

  Freddy took the letter into the stable to show to Leo. The lion was in the box stall next to Hank. He had borrowed Jinx’s mirror, and he spent most of his time in front of it, turning his head this way and that and admiring his new hair-do. He turned towards the pig with a slightly discontented expression on his face.

  “Give me your frank opinion, Freddy,” he said. “What do you think of the way I had my mane fixed?”

  Freddy thought it was pretty ridiculous, pulled up tight from the back and piled in a sort of heap on top. But of course he didn’t say so right out. He stepped back and frowned and put his head on one side and one fore trotter up to his chin to show that he was thinking deeply. Then he walked slowly around his friend. Once or twice he nodded as if agreeing with himself, and once or twice he shook his head in disagreement. And at last he said:

  “Well, it’s very smart, Leo. Very fashionable. But I think just a leetle extreme. I think dignity would be the keynote for lions, and this is just a trifle, just a mite, undignified.”

  “But I think just a leetle extreme.”

  Leo nodded. “Afraid you’re right. There was two juncos flew in here this morning; asked me if I’d rent ’em a nest in it. Smart alecks! If I could have got a paw on ’em—”

  “That’s the trouble with style,” said Freddy. “Everybody naturally wants to wear the latest thing, but the latest thing isn’t always becoming to everybody. Personally, I just let fashion go. Because I’d look funny in any of the new styles. If I wash behind my ears, and don’t slouch, that’s about as far as I care to go.”

  Leo nodded. “You always look nice,” he said. He looked at himself again in the mirror and then began combing his mane with his claws. “I’ll get these hairpins out and comb it down over my shoulders again. That’s really the most effective arrangement. Ripples nicely, don’t you think?” Then he looked at Freddy. “What have you got there?”

  So Freddy showed him the letter. “That’s a nice offer of Mr. Boomschmidt’s,” he said, “and it would be a lot of fun running a circus, being on the road. But I’d have to be away from the farm all summer. I don’t want to do that.”

  “He won’t use your money unless you go into partnership with him,” Leo said.

  “Suppose I give you the money and you go into partnership with him,” said Freddy.

  “Uh-uh,” said Leo. “Oh no, thank you most to pieces. My Uncle Ajax always used to tell me: never have money dealings with your friends. There’s nothing that breaks up friendship as quick as money. Why I could tell you cases—”

  “Sure, sure,” Freddy interrupted. “But that doesn’t help me any. I’ve got to find some way to get him to take that money. I wish he wasn’t so proud.”

  “All the Boomschmidts were proud,” said Leo. “I remember my Uncle Ajax telling me about our Mr. Boomschmidt’s father, Ulysses X. Boomschmidt, when he had the circus. He was so proud that when the show was over and people were coming out, if he heard anybody say they hadn’t enjoyed it, he’d rush right up and give them their money back. Sometimes he’d even give ’em a dollar extra—‘to pay you for the time you’ve wasted,’ he’d say with a low bow. Sometimes, when the applause hadn’t been very loud during the show, he’d get thinking that maybe nobody had enjoyed it, and he’d give everybody their money back. Finally it got so he paid out lots of times more than he’d taken in, because some people would come out of the big tent two or three times. If the old man hadn’t retired, the show would have gone bust.”

  “That’s very interesting,” said Freddy, “but it still doesn’t help. I guess I’d better go down and talk to Mr. Weezer.”

  It wasn’t a very good day to go to Centerboro. Although it was well along in March, the long awaited thaw had only just begun. But it had begun in earnest. A warm rain was melting the snow and turning the fields to ponds and the road to a river. Freddy hadn’t been able to persuade Hank to take him down in the old phaeton. “ ’Twon’t do my rheumatism any good to get my feet wet,” the horse said. So Freddy borrowed Mrs. Bean’s second best umbrella and splashed off down the road.

  It wasn’t a very good day to get advice, either. Mr. Weezer gave one of his rare dry laughs when he heard Freddy’s problem. “It’s a very unusual case,” he said. “Mostly people come to consult me about how to get money out of other folks’ pockets without their noticing it—not how to put it in. I don’t see what I can do, Freddy; it’s completely out of my line.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “If you want to start up the circus, I guess you’ll have to accept the partnership.”

  “I can’t let Mr. Boomschmidt down,” said Freddy. “I’d better draw my money out and start for Virginia right away, then.”

  “If you get into any difficulties, remember the Centerboro bank is behind you,” said Mr. Weezer. “We’re all pretty grateful to you for the mouse job.” He got the money in crackly new twenty dollar bills, and Freddy tucked it into the inside pocket of the old coat.

  “Won’t it be pretty dangerous, traveling with all that money?” the banker asked.

  “Nobody’d rob a pig,” Freddy said. “Besides Jerry and Leo are going along; nobody would tackle them.”

  He thanked Mr. Weezer and went over to the jail. The prisoners felt pretty bad when they heard that Jerry was going to leave them. They had made a saddle for him, and on good days they took turns riding him around the jail yard. The sheriff didn’t want them to take him out on the road until they had found some way of steering him, for his mouth was so tough that an ordinary horse bit was no good—a strong man, pulling on the rein, couldn’t pull his head around; and his eyesight was so poor that he was always running into things. One of the prisoners had got badly bruised when Jerry had run full tilt into a large elm tree.

  Jerry was glad to be going back to Virginia, and so was Leo. “ ’Tisn’t that I don’t like it here, Freddy,” the lion said. “You’ve treated me fine—taken me right in like one of the family. But Mr. Boomschmidt is going to need me. And then … well, I’ve been here six weeks, and you know, my Uncle Ajax used to say that a week was long enough to visit anybody. In a week you can say all you’ve got to say; after that you begin repeating yourself and telling your stories over again. Uncle Ajax said that if you didn’t get thrown out, you at least wore out your welcome.”

  “Nonsense,” said Freddy; “you could stay here all your life and not wear out your welcome. But we’ve got a lot of work waiting for us in Virginia. I’d like to wait till the roads dry out, but I guess we ought to start tomorrow morning.”

  That afternoon Freddy walked up to the duck pond. It had stopped raining, and the snow was nearly all gone from the pasture, and all around him as he went squelching up the slope, the whole hillside chuckled and chirped with running water. Uncle Wesley was sitting by his front door, shivering a little and looking very glum, and when he saw Freddy he got up and came to meet him.

  “I know you’re going to say it,” he said gloomily. “But I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Say what?”

  “‘Fine weather for ducks.’ So many people feel they must say that when it’s wet, and I can’t tell you how tired I am of it.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything of the kind,” said Freddy. “I just dropped in to see how your patient was getting on.”

  “Hoo! That Edward!” said Uncle Wesley disgustedly. “Will you believe me, my friend, when I tell you that that wretch has so insinuated himself into the good graces of my dear nieces that their old uncle is no longer of any account in his own home? Sits there like a—like a king, in my house, and allows them to lavish on him all the little attentions that should be the due of their devoted uncle, who has repeatedly sacrificed himself for their welfare. All my little comforts—the down cushion in front of the fire—‘Edward must sit there, de
ar uncle; he doesn’t feel well.’ ‘Edward must sleep now, uncle; we must be quiet.’ Even the guest room has been given to him. I sleep in the kitchen! The kitchen! Me!

  “Ah, ingratitude, ingratitude!” Uncle Wesley declaimed. “It has made me a stranger in my own home!”

  “Why don’t you throw him out?” Freddy asked. “You’re bigger than he is.”

  Uncle Wesley nodded his head slowly. “I have thought of that,” he said. “Yes, even I, who have always preached that violence in any form is vulgar and inexcusable, have been tempted to use force. But I cannot but feel that a dignified forbearance is the only course open to a gentleman. The example I have given my nieces, the standard I have set for them, has been a high one. I cannot bring myself to be guilty of conduct which I have taught them to condemn. Even at the cost of my comfort—yes, of my self-respect, I must not lower myself in their eyes.”

  “You seem to have got yourself pretty well lowered anyway,” Freddy said. “Personally, if things are as you say, I’d have a lot more respect for you if you pulled some of this fellow’s tail-feathers out.”

  Uncle Wesley smiled condescendingly. “Yes, you would think of that. But I have never yet cared to win a cheap notoriety by acts of vulgar violence.”

  Freddy said: “Yeah?” and grinned. And just then Edward, followed by Alice and Emma, came out. And certainly, Freddy thought, the roles had changed. For now it was Alice and Emma who simpered bashfully, while Edward acted almost as self-important as Uncle Wesley.

  “Good morning, Freddy; good morning,” said Edward. “I was just going to escort Cousins Alice and Emma down to the barnyard. First day we’ve been able to get out. Shall we go down with you?”

  “‘Cousin,’ eh?” Freddy thought. “Well, well!” He said: “Sure, we’ll go on down.”