Freddy and the Bean Home News

by Walter R. Brooks

  “I don’t want him to rescue me, and I don’t want the animals to, either,” said Freddy. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  “Your newspaper?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wondered if you’d think of that,” said Whibley. “Well, write your stuff; I’m going to sleep.”

  Freddy ordered No. 23 to hide in the bushes and report if anyone approached the house, and then he sat down with his pencil and paper. “The attempts of Mr. Herbert Garble to put the Bean Home News out of business,” he wrote, “have culminated in an act so dastardly, that we believe that the good people of Centerboro will not only wish to know about it, we are confident that they will call upon the sheriff and the state police to see that justice is done. Although the editor of this paper was cleared in open court of all charges against him, Mr. Garble, aided by one Smith, a chauffeur employed by Mrs. Humphrey Underdunk, has kidnapped him and imprisoned him in the cellar of the old Cassoway house, on the hill above the village. This is a clear case of kidnapping, theft, and conspiracy in restraint of trade. We call upon all law-abiding citizens to come to the rescue before the criminals have time to carry out their wicked and inhuman plan of depriving the editor of this paper permanently of the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, certified to him by the Constitution of the United States. Though a pig, he has his privileges. Though a pig, he is a good American. Though a pig, he deserves your help. Nay, he demands it. The proof of his words will be found at the Cassoway farm. Send the police there, at once!”

  When he had finished he called No. 23. “Take this to Mr. Dimsey,” he said, “and tell him to get out an extra as soon as he can set it up in type. Tell him to see that everybody in town gets a copy this afternoon.”

  Old Whibley flew over to the window. “Give it to me,” he said, and snatching the paper, squeezed through the bars and flew off towards town.

  Freddy sent 23 back to his post, and sat down to wait. By and by Jacob came back with half a dozen of his cousins. They lined up on the windowsill, and every little while one or two of them would make a short reconnaissance flight. For a time they had nothing to report beyond the presence of Smith, who was sitting under a tree down the road with his gun. But then one of them, who had circled off to the north, on the side away from Centerboro, brought word that a number of animals were working their way up the far side of the hill under cover of the woods. So Jacob went out to see.

  “It’s the Bean animals,” he said when he came back. “They were going to try a rescue, but I talked to Mrs. Wiggins and told her there wasn’t a chance of breaking into this cellar, and some of ’em would get shot. Now they’re going to take up positions as close to the house as they can get. Then when Garble comes and opens the cellar door, they’ll try a rush.”

  “Tell ’em to be careful,” said Freddy. “If there’s a chance, I’ll give a loud squeal as a signal. But I hope that won’t be necessary.”

  A little after noon, however, Mrs. Wiggins herself came boldly up the hill and sat down in front of the window. “I can’t help it, Freddy,” she said. “I had to come up and see with my own eyes that you were all right, Garble or no Garble. And I know that when you’re in trouble it is good to see a friend’s face—even if it’s only a cow’s. I was going to smuggle a file in to you, hidden in a loaf of bread, the way they do in stories about people escaping from prisons, but Mrs. Bean doesn’t bake until tomorrow so I couldn’t get the bread. It’s too bad, because you could have filed through those bars and got out.”

  “I’m afraid it would take several days to file the bars,” said Freddy. “But I don’t quite see … well, I mean you could have brought the file anyway, couldn’t you?”

  “Land sakes, what a ninny I am! Of course I could! And just because I couldn’t get the bread I didn’t even bring it! Well I am provoked with myself.”

  Freddy consoled her as well as he could, and presently she went back down.

  The afternoon dragged slowly on. “By now,” Freddy thought, “Mr. Dimsey will be printing the extra … By now he will be giving it to people all over town. Oh, I hope he hurries!”

  And then about four o’clock, Jacob called down and lit on an iron bar by Freddy’s nose. “They’re coming for you. Earlier than they intended to. That chauffeur got hold of one of the extras, and they want to sneak you out before anybody comes to rescue you.” And Freddy heard the hum of the station wagon coming up the road.

  This time, Jacob and his relatives had no chance to do anything artistic in the way of stinging. They whirled and dove, they lit and prodded for openings, but Mr. Garble and the chauffeur wore heavy gauntlets and high boots, and their heads and necks were protected with nets such as bee keepers wear, and the wasps couldn’t do a thing. Freddy fought and struggled, but he was seized and bundled into the crate. Then the side was nailed on, and the two men started to carry it up the stairs.

  “When they get me to the top, I’ll give the signal,” Freddy thought.

  But before they reached the top there was a humming outside, and the humming grew to a roar, and as the crate was slid out on the grass, Freddy saw through its bars two troopers on motorcycles sweep in a long curve into the weed-grown barnyard, and behind them, a dozen cars. The troopers jumped off their motorcycles, and the people piled out of the cars and rushed over and surrounded the kidnappers.

  Nearly all of them, Freddy saw, had copies of a single sheet newspaper in their hands, and he saw the big black letters: “Extra! Well-known Editor Kidnapped.” Among them were nearly all the people he knew in town: Mr. Dimsey and the sheriff and Judge Willey and Mr. Muszkiski and Mr. Weezer and old Mrs. Peppercorn and a dozen others. And they were all shouting angrily and talking at once.

  Mr. Garble and the chauffeur might have come in for some rough handling, but Judge Willey stepped in front of them. “Quiet, everybody!” he said. Then he turned to Mr. Garble. “What are you doing in that ridiculous disguise, Herbert? Take off that veil.”

  “It isn’t a veil,” said Mr. Garble, pulling it off. “It’s a head net.”

  “Well, if you called it your new Easter bonnet it would still look very silly,” said the judge.

  “I told you we’d get in trouble, doing this, Mr. Garble,” said the chauffeur, who looked as if he was going to cry.

  “Oh, shut up,” replied Mr. Garble. “We’ve got a perfect right to get rid of this pig. He’s Centerboro’s public enemy number one.”

  “Let’s hear the law, judge,” said the sheriff. “Just looks to me as if Herb, here, had stolen Mr. Bean’s pig.”

  And somebody on the outskirts of the crowd began to sing:

  “Herb, Herb, the Garble’s son

  Stole a pig and away he run.”

  “Another interruption of that kind,” said the judge severely, “and I will have this barnyard cleared. There are several laws bearing on this case,” he went on. “First, as the sheriff has so ably suggested, there is a law against stealing. Under that law I now direct the sheriff to arrest Herbert Garble and this chauffeur for the theft of Mr. Bean’s pig.”

  “Oh, come, judge,” said Mr. Garble. “According to the new Centerboro law, any animal unaccompanied by his owner becomes the property of the town. He isn’t Mr. Bean’s pig; he’s the town’s pig.”

  “In that case,” said Judge Willey, “you are stealing him from the town, and I accordingly direct the sheriff to arrest you over again for the theft of the town’s pig.”

  “This hurts me more than it does you, Herb,” said the sheriff with a grin, as he snapped a pair of handcuffs on Mr. Garble’s wrists.

  “Furthermore,” went on the judge, “there is a law against interfering with the freedom of the press, and another law against kidnapping, and another law against conspiracy in restraint of trade, and my goodness, there must be a dozen other laws you have broken in trying to get this pig out of the country.”

  “Haven’t done anything of the kind,” broke in Mr. Garble angrily. “I wasn’t really going to ship him ou
t of the country. I was just trying to scare him so he’d behave.”

  “There’s a law against scaring people, too,” said the judge.

  Some of the others had been prying off the front of the crate, and now Freddy came out. “Excuse me, judge, but may I make a suggestion?”

  “No,” said the judge. “Since you are unaccompanied by your owner, you are the property of the town, and I direct the sheriff to take charge of you until the town decides what is to be done with you.”

  There was an angry murmur among Freddy’s friends at this, but the judge was firm. “That’s the law,” he said.

  “Well, if that’s so,” said Freddy, “there’s another animal down in that cellar and the owner isn’t here either. I think the town should take charge of it too.”

  “He means the iron deer,” said Mr. Dimsey, who was peering down the cellar stairs. He and some of the others went down and pulled it up onto the grass.

  “That isn’t an animal,” protested Mr. Garble. “It’s just a piece of iron and it belongs to my sister, Mrs. Humphrey Underdunk. You’ll leave it alone if you know what’s good for you.”

  “The law is no respecter of persons,” said the judge.

  “I guess it’s no respecter of the facts,” said Mr. Garble.

  “Come, come, no impertinence,” said the judge. “However, I will interpret the law to you. The law merely says: No animal. It does not say what the animal shall be made of. A wooden animal, an iron animal, a flesh and blood animal, they are all the same in the eyes of the law, unless otherwise distinguished. This animal is not accompanied by its owner and is therefore the property of the town, and I direct the sheriff to take charge of it. Sheriff, do your duty.”

  “Guess I’ll have to take you along, Freddy,” said the sheriff. “Come on, Herb, and you too, Smith.”

  Mr. Garble glared at Freddy. “Anyhow, pig, you won’t get off this time when you come to trial.”

  “He will not be tried again,” said the judge. “It is the law that nobody can be tried twice for the same crime.”

  At that moment a buggy came dashing into the barnyard, drawn by Hank, and Mr. Bean jumped out. “What’s going on here?” he demanded, pushing through the crowd.

  The judge explained. “And as you are the pig’s owner,” he concluded, “he is no longer unaccompanied, and I accordingly direct the sheriff to release him.”

  Everybody cheered at that, and Freddy said: “There’s just one thing, Judge Willey. I don’t specially want to have Mr. Garble sent to jail or anything like that. If he’ll just stop interfering with me—that’s all I want.”

  “Oh, don’t be so noble,” said a deep hooting voice, and everybody looked up to see Old Whibley sitting on the edge of the roof and blinking at them. “Your Honor,” he continued, turning his large yellow eyes on the judge, “this pig, though a good deal of a fool, is still my client. May I make a suggestion which will save time and trouble, not only for the honorable court, but for everybody concerned?”

  The judge nodded. “Your legal talents, my respected colleague,” he said, “are held in too high esteem for me to wish to deprive either myself or these good people of the opportunity of hearing them displayed. Pray continue.”

  “I thank Your Honor,” said the owl. “It will not, I think, be necessary, for me to review facts which are well known to all present. Mr. Garble says that in sending this pig out of the country he was trying to do a public service. That is not true. He was trying to get rid of a business rival. He was trying to get rid of the Bean Home News. Now the fair way to get rid of the Home News would be to make his own newspaper better, so that people would want to read it. Why, Your Honor, what would it be like in Centerboro if all the grocers and butchers and doctors started kidnapping and shooting each other in order to get each other’s business?”

  “Might be rather fun for a while,” said the judge absently, then he pulled himself up. “No, I quite see what you mean. Continue.”

  “Well, Your Honor,” went on the owl, “I suggest that the fairest settlement of this case would be to release Mr. Garble, but only on condition that he and Mrs. Underdunk return the Guardian printing press to Mr. Dimsey and promise to stop persecuting my client.”

  “I won’t agree to that,” shouted Mr. Garble. “And neither will Mrs. Underdunk.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Judge Willey. “I think she will. Rather than have the disgrace of a brother in jail for stealing a pig—yes, I think she will.” He looked up at Old Whibley. “You have stated the case very clearly, my learned friend,” he said, “and this court rules accordingly. Have you any further suggestions?”

  “Only one more,” said the owl. “Regarding this iron deer, which is now the property of the town. My client has suffered both bodily discomfort and mental anguish during his unjust imprisonment. He would have a right to sue Mr. Garble for heavy damages. But Your Honor, he is a poet and a patriot. As a poet, he does not want to collect money for the suffering he has undergone. But as a patriot, he does want to make a success of the scrap drive which ends, I believe, tomorrow. Mrs. Underdunk offered this iron deer publicly to anyone who would cart it away. It was in attempting to do so that my client was captured. I suggest therefore that he be permitted to continue what he had set out to do, that he be allowed to add it to his own scrap pile.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” said the judge. He looked around. “Mr. Weeser, what do you say? Dr. Winterpool?” They both nodded. “Very well. The town board has voted to agree.”

  “I thank Your Honor,” said Old Whibley. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have business elsewhere.” And he spread his wings and floated off in the direction of his home.”

  “Dear me,” said the judge, “a most able advocate. I wonder if this other business he speaks of is of a legal nature.”

  “No,” said Freddy. “He’s just going back home and go to sleep.”

  “A most extraordinary knowledge of the law,” said the judge thoughtfully. “I hope I shall be able to consult with him more frequently in the future.”

  “What about my pig, judge?” put in Mr. Bean.

  “Oh, he’s free to go,” said the judge. “But good gracious, who are all these other animals?” For Freddy’s friends, as soon as they had seen Mr. Bean arrive, had felt that it would now be safe to come out of hiding, and they had crowded in among the people, and two of the cows were already starting to drag the iron deer back down the hill.

  Freddy explained, and then went over to where Mr. Dimsey was talking to Mr. Garble and the sheriff. Mr. Garble was sullen but he had at last agreed to the terms offered him.

  “I’ve promised to pay back the money I owe Mrs. Underdunk, Freddy,” said Mr. Dimsey, “in return for the press. And now you and I can run the Guardian together. ‘Centerboro Guardian & Bean Home News. Freddy & Dimsey, Props.’ Eh? And if we can’t reelect the sheriff this fall, we’re no good. Even the folks that wanted to stand well with Mrs. Underdunk could hardly vote for a man that would steal a pig.”

  The chauffeur had brought the station wagon up, and Mr. Garble was getting in. A few wasps were buzzing about them, but wasps seldom bother people in the open air, and they weren’t paying much attention. But as Freddy looked, he saw one wasp light on the back of Mr. Garble’s collar. It walked up to Mr. Garble’s hair, then it turned and walked half way back to the collar, and after a moment’s hesitation it lifted up on its hind legs and deliberately plunged in its sting. Another wasp had evidently applied the same treatment to the chauffeur at the same moment, for there were two loud yells, and the station wagon went bounding and skidding out of the barnyard.

  “Well, for goodness sake!” said Mr. Dimsey. “I don’t see what they’ve got to be so happy about.”

  Chapter 15

  The animals dragged the deer home right through the main street of Centerboro, and almost the whole town turned out to cheer and congratulate them. Weighing the deer when they finally got it home, was quite a job. They got it on one end of
the plank all right, and then Mrs. Wurzburger and Mrs. Wogus got on the other end, and as many of the smaller animals as could stand under the cows got on, and at last Mr. Bean got up and sat on Mrs. Wiggins’ back. The deer began to go up off the ground, and then there was a sharp crack, the plank broke, and Mr. Bean and the animals went down into a struggling heap. The other animals sorted themselves out and got up slowly, but Mr. Bean and Mrs. Wiggins remained on the ground. They sat there and just looked at each other, and then the cow began to laugh.

  When Mrs. Wiggins laughed you could hear her halfway to Centerboro. You’d have thought somebody was tickling a giant. And pretty soon Mr. Bean began to laugh too. They sat there just looking at each other and laughing, and the animals, who had never heard Mr. Bean laugh before, stared and stared. And then they began.

  When Mrs. Wiggins had started laughing, Mrs. Bean hadn’t even looked up from her work in the kitchen, because she had heard that sound often enough. But when Mr. Bean started, it was a sound the like of which she had never heard before in her life, and she ran to the door.

  “Good grief, Mr. B.,” she called, “what ails you? You sound like an old rusty gate.”

  Mr. Bean stopped laughing and got up, and his expression might have been a little sheepish if anybody could have seen it.

  “I was taking a cake out of the oven,” said Mrs. Bean, “and when you made that noise it just fell flat.”

  “What’s the harm?” said Mr. Bean. “Cakes are better that way; got more body to ’em.”

  Mrs. Bean smiled and went back in the house.

  “Got to get the chores done,” said Mr. Bean, and went off to the barn. But every now and then as he worked he kept making strange fizzing noises in his beard, and the animals decided he was still laughing.

  “Got started and can’t stop,” said Mrs. Wogus. “But how he holds it in, I can’t see. Land of love, if I tried to hold in when I wanted to laugh, I’d burst wide open.”