Mr. Bean did not read the paper out loud before supper, but you might have thought he was doing so because of the continuous flow of comment with which he accompanied his reading. “Tut, tut,” he would say. “Stuff and nonsense! What’s the matter with those fellows down there?” And as his eye went down the column: “Good! There’s a man that knows his job!” And then: “Of all the tarnal balderdash!” He either liked the pieces a lot or thought they were terrible.
But this evening he didn’t say anything while he read the first few lines, and then he put the paper down and looked over his spectacles at Freddy, who was sitting down beside the porch. “What’s all this you’ve written down here about the sheriff?” he said. “I ain’t saying it ain’t true, mind you,” he said; “the sheriff’s a good man. But if you’re backin’ him in the election this coming fall, well—” He struck the paper with the back of his hand—“that’s politics! And I don’t like it!”
Freddy didn’t say anything, but he thought: “Oh, dear! He’ll make me stop defending the sheriff, and I just can’t do that. The sheriff’s my friend.”
“You understand what I mean?” said Mr. Bean.
“Yes, sir,” said Freddy meekly.
Mr. Bean put down the Home News without reading any more, and picked up the Guardian. “H’m,” he said. “Folsom Jacks got married. Pity … Tut, tut, that’s no way to run a government … Hey!” he exclaimed suddenly. “What’s this!” He looked at Freddy. “You read this paper yet?” and without waiting for an answer he began to read out loud.
“The Guardian has had occasion several times recently to call the attention of our townspeople to the outbreaks of animal violence in our streets, and has suggested that measures must be taken to put an end to them. The events of the past few days make it plain that the situation is even more serious than we had supposed. The editor of the Guardian was the victim of a shocking attack last Wednesday, when a gang of savage animals forced their way into his private office and beat him severely. The attack was entirely unprovoked, and only the fact that the editor put up a stout fight against overwhelming odds, saved his life!”
At this point Mr. Bean looked up. “True or false?” he asked.
“False,” said Freddy.
“Knowing Herb Garble, I thought as much,” said Mr. Bean. “Besides, all of you were here Wednesday, except Charles and Jinx. Yet there must be something to it. Was it them?”
“Just Charles,” said Freddy.
“What?” said Mr. Bean. “Charles alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
It is pretty hard to believe that a rooster could drive a man out of his own office. But there was one nice thing about Mr. Bean: he never doubted the word of any of his animals. Now he just looked hard at Freddy, and puffed furiously on his pipe, and Freddy felt pretty sure that he was laughing, though as he never laughed out loud it was pretty hard to tell behind the smoke and the whiskers. But after a minute he turned back to the paper.
“The Guardian has made an investigation into the causes of these outrages, and some interesting facts have come to light. It appears that the animals involved are all members of a gang which won some notoriety several years ago by taking a trip to Florida. Our readers will not need to be told that they were the property of Mr. William Bean.
“There seemed, at the time, little harm in this trip. But it caused some talk; the animals were interviewed and their pictures appeared in the New York papers; and many foolish people made a fuss over them—invited them to parties and told them how cute and clever they were. The result was what might have been expected. The animals were thoroughly spoiled. No longer content to live the simple life of farm animals, in their efforts to get attention, they began the series of annoyances which have reached their peak in the recent violent outbursts!” Mr. Bean stopped again. “True or false?” he asked. Then he leaned over and patted Freddy on the head. “Don’t answer. If anyone’s spoiled, it’s Herb Garble. Let’s read some more of his violent outburst.” And he went on.
“‘The blame for this rests squarely on the shoulders of William Bean. A silly pride in the so-called accomplishments of his animals has led him to encourage their impertinences. He has even refused to chain up his ungovernable and dangerous pig. Our sheriff, too, with his well-known slackness, has refused to take any steps whatever to protect the public. Our readers will be glad to know, however, that measures are being taken for their safety. The solid citizens of Centerboro have swung into action, and have passed a law that any animal found on our streets, unaccompanied by his owner, becomes the property of the town, and may be seized and disposed of as the town sees fit.’”
Mr. Bean dropped the paper again, and puffed so hard at his pipe that the sparks flew in all directions, and Freddy moved a little out of range.
“The consarned busybody!” Mr. Bean exclaimed. “Going to seize my animals, hey? Well, just let him—” He stopped abruptly as a buggy drove into the barnyard. “Mrs. B.!” he shouted. “Company’s comin’!” And he got up and went to meet the sheriff, who was climbing out of the buggy with a folded newspaper in his hand.
“Evenin’, sheriff,” he said. “Just in time for supper. Come in and draw up a chair.”
“Thank you kindly,” said the sheriff, “but I can’t stay. I promised the prisoners I’d be back. It’s Bloody Mike’s birthday, and we’re giving him a little party. Couldn’t get any paper hats at Lieber’s and had to drive over to Tushville for some. The boys would never forgive me if I didn’t get back with ’em.” He held out the paper. “I suppose you’ve seen this?”
Mr. Bean nodded.
“Well that ain’t the worst of it. There’s a warrant out for Freddy’s arrest. State troopers. We’ve got to get Freddy away. They’ll come tonight.”
“My land!” said Mrs. Bean, who had come to the door. “They tried to arrest Freddy last year when they thought he’d stolen a balloon. And now they’re after him again. Well, they don’t get him, warrant or no warrant. Just let them try!”
But Mr. Bean shook his head. “We can’t fight the state police, Mrs. B.,” he said. “What’s your idea, sheriff?”
“Well, we got to act quick. Suppose Freddy comes down and stays with me for a while. He could put on one of his disguises—maybe that old lady disguise he went to see Mr. Weezer in that time. I could say he was my old aunt come to visit me.”
“Why don’t I just go up in the woods and stay with Peter?” said Freddy. “I don’t want to get the sheriff into trouble. Anyway, people have heard about that disguise. They might recognize it.”
“No trouble at all,” said the sheriff. “Not half as much as my real aunt would be, because she always makes me wear a necktie at meals. Besides, how could you run your newspaper up in the woods?”
“How could I run it anyway, if I’m in hiding?” said Freddy.
“Just write your stuff and send it over to Mr. Dimsey. Let Herb Garble worry about how it gets there. Centerboro’s the last place he’d look for you.”
Mrs. Bean, who had disappeared for a moment inside, came out with a bundle which she unwrapped. “Here’s a disguise nobody’s ever seen,” she said. “I found it today when I started my spring housecleaning. It belonged to Mr. Bean when he was a little boy.” And she spread out an old-fashioned boy’s sailor suit. “You can be the sheriff’s nephew, instead of his aunt.”
The sheriff and Freddy looked at the sailor suit and then at Mr. Bean, and. then at each other.
“Goon, laugh,” said Mr. Bean. “I wore it, and I got pictures in the album to prove it.”
“I bet you looked right cute in it,” said the sheriff. “Well, Freddy, crowd into it and let’s get going.”
The suit was pretty tight for the pig, but Mr. and Mrs. Bean and the sheriff pulled and tugged and got him into it finally, and when the navy blue scarf was knotted around under the wide collar and the round hat with the ribbon was perched on his head, Mr. Bean slapped his thigh. “Looks most as good as I did in it,” he said.
“Which isn’t saying much,” said Mrs. Bean with a twinkle. “I was looking at those old photographs this afternoon.—Oh, land of Goshen, here they are,” she exclaimed, as a white police car drove into the yard.
Freddy knelt down and pretended to be playing with some pebbles as a trooper got out of the car and came up to the porch.
Freddy knelt down and pretended to be playing with some pebbles.
“Evening, Mr. Bean,” he said. “We got a warrant for that pig of yours. I’m sorry, but we’ve got to do our duty and arrest him.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” said Mrs. Bean, her eyes snapping.
“Now, Mrs. B.,” said Mr. Bean; “never argue with the law.”
“Do you know where he is?” asked the trooper.
“Wouldn’t tell you if I did,” said Mr. Bean. “It’s against the law to hinder ye, but I ain’t going to help ye.”
“We’ll just have to search, then,” said the trooper, and he went back to the car and he and the other trooper started towards the pigpen.
“Supper’s on the table,” said Mrs. Bean. “Sheriff, you and your nephew had better come in and have a bite. You can get back in time for your party. We haven’t got much—just fried chicken and cold ham and Lyonnaise potatoes and grilled tomatoes and gingerbread and mince pie and pickles and coffee—but you’re welcome to what there is.”
“Why, thank you kindly, ma’am,” said the sheriff, “but I wouldn’t want you to stint yourself on my account. I guess we ought to be getting along. Mustn’t disappoint Bloody Mike.”
“Well, goodbye, then,” said Mrs. Bean. “Goodbye, little boy. What’s your nephew’s name, sheriff?”
The sheriff looked at Freddy a minute, then he grinned. “Longfellow,” he said. “After the poet. Longfellow Higgins.”
“Well, goodbye, Longfellow,” said Mrs. Bean, as they drove off.
“What did you have to give me a name like that for?” said Freddy. “This suit is bad enough, without that.”
“Well, you are a poet, aren’t you?” said the sheriff. “And besides, with a name like that, nobody’ll guess who you really are. Who ever heard of a pig named Longfellow?”
Chapter 10
Freddy enjoyed his stay at the jail. The prisoners all knew him and liked him, and the sheriff said that he would answer for it that none of them would give him away, so he didn’t have to pretend to them that he was a little boy. He had a nice cell which was very handsomely and comfortably furnished, and the sheriff lent him his typewriter so that he could do his newspaper work. There was always something going on at the jail—the prisoners’ families came to visit them and had picnics on the lawn, and there were tennis courts and all sorts of games, and ice cream every day for dinner.
He spent a good deal of time with Mr. Dimsey. By going out the back door of the jail and cutting across two vacant lots, he could reach the road that led to the editor’s farm, and although the troopers were still looking for him he didn’t think there was much chance of being caught. Mr. Dimsey was delighted with the success of the Bean Home News. “We’ve got more subscribers in Centerboro now than the Guardian has,” he said. “Everybody thinks it is a much better paper than the Guardian. That is why Mr. Garble is so mad at you. It has twice as much news in it, and they say Herb Garble has the staggers every time a new issue comes out. He can’t see how you can get so much more news than he can.”
“I’ve just found out,” said Freddy, “how Aunt Abby gets all her news. Of course, she hears all the gossip from Miss Halsey, but she finds out a lot that even Miss Halsey doesn’t know. It’s the mice.”
“Mice!” said Mr. Dimsey.
“Yes. It seems the mice in Centerboro got up a social club, and they wanted a place to hold their meetings. Most of the houses in Centerboro have at least one family of mice living in them, and there were plenty of good cellars, but none of them seemed very safe on account of cats. Most of the houses have a cat, too. The mice usually have an arrangement with the house cat. The cat agrees to let them alone, and not interfere with them as long as they only pick up crumbs, and leave package goods alone. But the cats all said if there were any big meetings, it would be their duty to break them up. They said social clubs weren’t in the contract. So Aunt Abby offered them Miss Halsey’s cellar, because Miss Halsey is a little deaf, and hasn’t a cat any more. And then Aunt Abby was made an honorary member of the club, and attends the meetings. Well, you know what gossips mice are.”
“I didn’t,” said Mr. Dimsey.
“Well, they are. And what they don’t know about what goes on! Why my bet is, there’s mice under the floor here right now, and our whole conversation will be talked over at the next meeting.”
“Good gracious!” said Mr. Dimsey.
“Of course,” said Freddy, “there is a lot of what Aunt Abby finds out that hadn’t ought to be put in the paper. I have to leave a lot of it out. Just private matters, that people wouldn’t want known. But there’s things the mice know that the people don’t know, too. Like in the last issue—you know?—I wrote: ‘Better look for moths in the plaid blankets in the closet off the blue room.’ I didn’t say whose house it was in because good housekeepers don’t like other people to know it if they’ve got moths in things. Nobody knew whose closet I meant. But Mrs. Wingus knew when she read it, and she went and cleaned the moths out. She had no idea they had got in there either. But the mice knew.”
“That was pretty smart, Freddy,” said Mr. Dimsey.
“It always looks smart if you know something that other people don’t,” said the pig. “Specially if you don’t tell them how you found it out.”
Once or twice a week Freddy went out to the farm to see the Beans and gather news for the paper. This wasn’t so dangerous as it might seem, for he had hired a couple of flickers to scout ahead of him and let him know at once if they saw anything of the troopers. On one of these trips he brought Jerry Peters and Fido back to the jail with him in the pocket of the sailor suit.
One afternoon the prisoners and the sheriff all went off to the ball game. Centerboro was playing Tushville, and the sheriff thought it wouldn’t be safe for Freddy to go, because duty always seemed to take the troopers to the ball grounds when there was a game. The sheriff had said that they wouldn’t even stop to get a soda after the game, but would come right home, but the afternoon wore on and supper time came, and Freddy could hear the distant shouts and yells that told that the game was still in progress. “It must be a double-header,” he thought, “or else they’re tied, and going to twelve or thirteen innings. Oh dear, I wish I was there!”
It was beginning to get dark, now, and Freddy had just gone into the pantry to get a cookie, when a faint noise in the front of the jail made him go back, and there just inside the front door was a man. He was a small man with a round rosy face and small eyes, and a smile that was much too bright to be real. Freddy recognized him at once. He was a detective named Jason Binks, whom Mr. Weezer had hired two years before to spy on the affairs of the First Animal Bank, when that institution was first founded. Disguised as an old Irishwoman, Freddy had fooled him good, but he wasn’t so sure he could fool him again. For Mr. Binks might well remember him.
“Well, well, my little man,” said the detective, coming forward. “I guess you didn’t hear me knock, did you? Deary me, you are a fine little fellow and no mistake! And where is your good papa?”
Freddy did not like to leave the man alone in the jail, or he would have run away. On the other hand, although it was rather dark in the hall, he didn’t want Mr. Binks to get too close a look at his face. So he hid his eyes in the sleeve of his sailor suit and leaned against the wall and pretended to cry.
“Tut, tut,” said Mr. Binks, patting him on the shoulder. “There’s my brave little man. Don’t cry. Why Jason Binks wouldn’t touch a hair of your head!”
Freddy thought: “I guess he wouldn’t!” Because of course pigs don’t have any hair on their heads. And he sobbed louder, so that
Mr. Binks moved away from him nervously.
“There, there!” said the detective. “Good gracious no, Jason Binks likes little boys. Why, he has a little boy at home just like you.” (I bet he’d be surprised if he did, thought Freddy.) “Is the good sheriff your papa? And will he be back soon?”
“No, he ith not my papa,” said Freddy, trying to talk like a little boy, and throwing in a lisp for good measure. “He ith my uncle, and my name ith Longfellow Higginth, and I with you would go away!”
“Dear me, what a pretty name, to be sure! And he has left you all alone in this great big jail!” He came closer, but Freddy sobbed louder and he moved away again. “And he leaves you without any little playmates to romp with? Tut, tut! No jolly little pets? You haven’t a little dog to be your comrade? Not even perhaps a cunning little piggywig?”
“My goodness,” thought Freddy, “he really is looking for me!” And he stopped sobbing and began to wail.
“Sssssh!” whispered the detective apprehensively. “Gracious to goodness, brave little sailors don’t make noises like that!”
“Thith brave little thailor doeth,” lisped Freddy, “and he can make worth oneth too.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Binks, “I thee—I mean, I see you won’t be friends, so I’ll just go along. I only stopped in to enquire about a good little friend of mine who used to live near here. A jolly little fellow, a little piggy named Freddy. Have you seen any little piggywigs about, my little man?”
“No, I haven’t theen any piggy-wigth,” wailed Freddy, “nor any doggy-wogth, nor any thkunky-wunkth, and you had better go away becauthe I am going to thcream the houthe down. And then you will thee the thyeriff-weriff.” And he began to yell and scream at the top of his lungs.
Freddy and the Bean Home News Page 7
