Freddy and the Baseball Team from Mars

by Walter R. Brooks

  That anyone ever wro-et.

  But Mrs. Peppercorn thought this a very good verse, and congratulated Freddy heartily on having changed over to her style of writing.

  Right now Freddy didn’t want to get into an argument about poetry. So he said: “I expect you’re right about Anderson. And if he’s up to anything, it’ll be haunting houses, not kidnapping Martians. But how about renting me that front room of yours for a few days? It’ll be better making my headquarters here instead of at the circus.”

  So Mrs. Peppercorn said she’d be glad to have him, and Freddy went back to the ball park to get his bag.

  CHAPTER

  4

  The Boomschmidts said they were sorry Freddy wasn’t going to stay with them, but they agreed that if he did, they couldn’t possibly keep his presence a secret. So he said he’d keep them posted on whatever he detected, and picked up his bag and stumbled out.

  The space encircled by the circus wagons was empty now, a white snowy expanse, crisscrossed by the tracks of a dozen different animals. “Golly, I’d forgotten about tracks!” Freddy thought, and he went across to where he had stood beside Mr. Anderson. There were Anderson’s prints, the soles with a sort of herringbone pattern, and the heels with a triangle in the middle. And next to them were the unmistakable prints of a pig’s trotters.

  “I wonder if he noticed,” Freddy thought. “No, I’m sure he didn’t. If he’d known Mr. Arquebus was a pig, he’d have known the pig was me, and boy, he’d have chased me from here all the way back to the farm. But I’ll have to be careful, with this snow on the ground.”

  He started on toward the wagon where the Martians lived, when a ferocious roar behind him stopped him in his tracks. “Hey, you!” He turned and peered over his spectacles to see a large lion with a very curly mane trotting toward him across the snow.

  It was Leo, one of Freddy’s oldest and most trusted friends, and Freddy grinned behind his whiskers. Here was someone to try out his disguise on, but good!

  “Where you going with that suitcase?” the lion demanded.

  “I’m goin’ about my business,” Freddy snapped, “and suppose you go on about yours.”

  “I am, mister,” said the lion. “My business is with that suitcase, which has the initials F.B. on it, and which I recognize as belonging to my friend Freddy. Frederick Bean.”

  “That’s what you say,” Freddy replied. “Look, my frowzy-headed friend, why don’t you run along home and catch mice?” And he started on.

  But with a bound Leo was in front of him. Freddy was sorry that he couldn’t see the lion’s expression through his glasses. Leo spent a large part of his salary on his mane, and it was plain that he had recently had a permanent, so that to call him frowzy-headed was to hit him where it hurt most. And on top of that, to suggest to the king of beasts that he go home and catch mice! This time he let out a roar that brought a dozen animals tumbling out of their houses. “Well, dye my hair! You know who you’re talking to, you bug-eyed old thief? Now put down that suitcase, or I’ll comb those white whiskers for you with this.” And he held up one enormous paw, with the three-inch claws extended, close under Freddy’s nose.

  Freddy knew that no matter how mad Leo was he would never hurt an old man, and he was trying to think up another good insult, when Mr. Boomschmidt came hurrying out. “My goodness gracious, what’s all this shouting? Do please lower your voice, Leo. Now, now; put those claws back, too. But what’s this?” He took hold of the big paw. “You’ve been to that beauty shop again and had your claws painted. What’s the color this time?”

  Leo looked embarrassed. He turned his head aside. “Shell pink,” he muttered.

  “Really?” Mr. Boomschmidt was pleased. “How nice. What a pretty name. And a very pretty color, too. Don’t you think so, Mr.—ah, Arquebus?”

  Freddy grinned. When two of his animals got into an argument Mr. Boomschmidt always managed to lead the discussion off around a corner somewhere so that pretty soon the arguers were talking about something entirely different. Then he’d get them to agree about the new subject, and before long they would forget what they had disagreed about. He had a lot of tricks like that. And it tickled Freddy to see him working one on Leo, who knew him so well.

  “Paint ’em baby blue for all of me,” Freddy grated. “And wear rosebuds in his mane. Just so he minds his own business, no matter how silly.”

  Quite a crowd of animals had gathered, and one of the alligators giggled. Leo growled angrily and started to say something, but Mr. Boomschmidt said: “Now, now, Leo; Mr. Arquebus is only trying to be helpful. Not that I think rosebuds would be entirely suitable—”

  “You mean, you know this guy, chief?” Leo asked.

  “Good grief, I should say so! Known him for years.”

  “Good grief—known him for years.”

  “Well, why couldn’t you have said so?” Leo demanded. “I saw he had Freddy’s suitcase and I thought he’d swiped it somewhere.”

  “Now be reasonable, Leo,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “How could I tell you everybody I’ve known for years? Well, good gracious, I suppose I could. But it will take some time. Suppose we begin with the—No, let’s begin with the B’s, since my name is Boomschmidt, and I’ve known myself for years. Well, there’s Mr. Boomschmidt, here, and there’s William F. Bean, and there’s Bannister, Mr. Camphor’s butler, and there’s Walter R. Brooks who I’m told is writing another volume of his monumental work on the history of the Bean farm. And there’s an old school friend, Mr. Arthur Bandersnatch. And there’s Mr. Beller, in Beller & Rohr’s music store. And there’s George Birdseed, though maybe I ought not to count him, because he owes me two dollars. And there’s—”

  “All right, chief; all right!” said Leo. “I can take a hint without having the whole telephone book thrown at me. I just hope Freddy knows that this old buzzard is walking around with his good suitcase, that’s all! Buzzard. That begins with B, too, please note,” he added. Then he stalked off.

  “Break it up, animals,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, and the listeners wandered away, looking back curiously over their shoulders at Freddy. “You hadn’t ought to play tricks on Leo,” Mr. Boomschmidt said. “Not when you don’t want anybody to know you’re here. Leo’s smart; I bet he recognized you.”

  “I don’t think so. If he had, he couldn’t have resisted taking a really personal crack at me—I mean, something about pigs, or detectives, or poets. But anyway, I can trust him, and I want to have a talk with him later. I want to see the Martians first, though—see what they can tell me about Squeak-squeak.”

  “I came out to tell you, Freddy,” Mr. Boomschmidt said. “They—they don’t want to see you. I mean, just a few minutes ago Two-clicks came in and said never mind about Squeak-squeak; they knew where he was, and it was all right. No cause to worry.”

  Freddy frowned. “Did they tell you where he was?”

  Mr. Boomschmidt said no, they wouldn’t tell him anything.

  Freddy stared at him. “I don’t get it,” he said. “They want me to come; they even get you to write a letter so as to be sure I’ll come. Two-clicks was awful worried—I could tell. Now Squeak-squeak isn’t back, but they aren’t worried any more, and they want me to go home. What happened to change them?”

  Mr. Boomschmidt said: “I don’t know. You know, I went to talk to them about this baseball business. They wouldn’t talk about that; they wanted to know what you were doing about Squeak-squeak. But my goodness, half an hour later, after I’d talked to Here and Leo, I went out to speak to them about it again. They were all looking at a big sheet of paper covered with those Martian duck tracks. They kind of pushed it one side and it was then they told me Squeak-squeak was all right. I bet if you could get a look at that paper—”

  “You think it was a letter from Squeak-squeak?” Freddy asked. “But I can’t read Martian anyway.”

  “I don’t know what it was,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “But I know that they were worried, more than ever, even though the
y said they weren’t. They were worried because they were afraid you’d keep on trying to find Squeak-squeak, and they were worried about something else. Don’t ask me what it is! That’s your job.”

  “But if they want me to leave—”

  “Look, Freddy,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, “they’re in pretty serious trouble, I’m sure. So even if they say they don’t want you to, I think you ought to stay and get to the bottom of it. Now, suppose I tell them you’ve gone. Then I won’t say any more about Squeak-squeak, but I’ll get ’em interested in this baseball team. They’re interested already, even though they’re so worried. And I’ll tell ’em that I’ve engaged a coach to get the team going. And you’ll stay on as Mr. Arquebus and be the coach.”

  “Heck, Mr. Boom,” Freddy said, “do I look like a coach in this rig?”

  “You don’t look like anything I ever saw before, and that’s a fact,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “But what do Martians know about coaches? If I tell ’em you’re a coach, then you’re a coach. Come on, I’ll go introduce you to ’em now.”

  The Martians were pleased to meet Mr. Arquebus, and seemed interested in learning to play baseball. Click Two-squeaks spoke for them. He spoke fairly good English, although of course with a strong Martian accent. This is impossible to reproduce on paper, and we will not try. And indeed he only said that they thought baseball would be fun, and that they would be ready to go out for practice whenever Mr. Arquebus sent for them.

  “I thought there was one more of you,” Freddy said.

  Click Two-squeaks said there was, but he was away.

  “We’ll need him,” said Freddy. “We’ve got to have at least nine, and with Mr. Boom and Mr. Hercules and Leo and Oscar and Hannibal, that’s still only a bare team. You expect him back soon?”

  The Martians rolled their three eyes at one another and Click Two-squeaks said uncertainly that they hoped so.

  As they left the wagon where the Martians lived, Freddy stopped suddenly. “Hey! Do you see what I see?” And he pointed at a trail of footprints that their own had partly obliterated. “He’s been here recently. Now what would he have to say to the Martians?”

  “He?” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “Who? That’s nothing. Lots of people come out here to get a look at real live Martians.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” Freddy said. “But those footprints—you see the kind of herringbone sole and the triangle on the heel? Those are Anderson’s prints.”

  “Well Anderson’s human, ain’t he? That means he’s curious. What’s strange about his coming up to have a look?”

  “He was watching them play ball when I came,” said Freddy. “Then he went down to the bank with me. But then after that he came back to the door of their wagon.”

  “Might have been before, not after, he went to the bank.”

  “No.” Freddy had followed the tracks back a little way. “Because they’re on top of these elephant tracks. And the elephant tracks were made when I first looked out your window and saw the Martians playing.” He thought a minute. “And here’s another thing that may be significant,” he said. “Squeak-squeak is the only one who can’t seem to learn English. Was that why he was kidnapped?”

  Mr. Boomschmidt shook his head. “Good gracious, I don’t know, Freddy. I’m completely puzzled.”

  Freddy was, too, but of course he didn’t say so. “Well,” he said, “I’d better go talk to Leo.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  The lion lived alone in a small trailer. When Freddy tapped on the door and was told to come in, he found Leo building a fire in the little wood stove. Leo shut the stove door and dusted off his paws. “Well, well, here’s old woolly face! Ha! Take off your hat and coat and whiskers and sit down.”

  “Thankee,” said Freddy. “I’ll keep ’em on. Just want to find out where you stand on this baseball business. Your boss has hired me as coach, and he says you play after a fashion. What position?”

  “I was captain,” said Leo.

  Freddy nodded his head. “Captain. Yeah. I can see that team now. Nine players and a captain. Look, lion,” he said sharply. “The captain has to play, doesn’t he? He can’t just sit around and admire his pink fingernails. What did you play—shortstop, center field—”

  “I caught,” said Leo.

  “Mice?” Freddy asked.

  A deep rumbling growl came out of the lion’s throat, and he walked stiff-legged toward his visitor. “Mister,” he said, “that’s the last straw!” He put a big paw on Freddy’s shoulder. “I won’t hurt you—not much. But I’m going to take you out and wash your face in the snow.”

  “In that case,” said Freddy, in his natural voice, “I’d better take off my glasses.” And he did so.

  Leo stared at him, and slowly his nose wrinkled up in an expression of disgust. “Well, dye my hair!” he said. “You know, all the time there was something familiar about you. Not your face—there never is about that—even when you’re not in disguise. But what’s this all about? You’re not really serious about this coaching job?”

  “Sure. With Here’s help, and yours. And I’ll get a book on it. Anyway, it’s just an excuse to hang around and see what I can find out about Squeak-squeak.” And he told Leo the story.

  The lion knew that Squeak-squeak had disappeared, and that Freddy had been sent for. But he hadn’t known that the Martians had changed their minds and refused help. He had no explanation for that. “What does the chief think?” he asked.

  “I guess he thinks as I do,” said Freddy, “that the Martians are in trouble, but that since they won’t tell, all we can do is watch. And keep an eye on Anderson, because he’s in it somewhere.”

  Leo stoked up the fire and made some cocoa. Freddy immediately spilled some on his beard, which had to be taken out in the kitchen and washed and then hung up to dry while they talked. Later, Freddy had supper at the Boomschmidts’, and that evening the Martians and Leo and Oscar and Mr. Hercules came in to plan the baseball team.

  Freddy thought they should begin practice immediately, but Leo said: “You can’t begin training in the winter. Spring’s the time for that.”

  “We’ll have to work indoors mostly,” said Freddy. “And it won’t accomplish much. But I figure that it will be awful good advertising. We’ll put it in the paper that it’s the sissy teams that go south for their spring training. We don’t mind a little cold. We’re tough and rugged. Hardened by winter training. All that stuff. And we’ll have songs about it.” He began to sing.

  “The Martians are comin’, Oho! Oho!

  The Martians are comin’, in mud, in snow.

  With bats and with balls and with fifes and with drummin’,

  The Martians are comin’, Oho! Oho!

  The Martians are comin’, Hooray! Hooray!

  The Dodgers and Yankees they’ll play, they’ll play!

  They’ll mop up the earth, then they’ll tackle the planets,

  Constantly yellin’ Hooray! Hooray!”

  Oscar interrupted. “What vile doggerel!” he muttered. He was sitting in a corner with his legs folded under him, and he looked down his beak at Freddy with his big foolish eyes and said snippily: “Mr. Boom, is this shabby old person really to be our coach?” For of course Freddy still had on his disguise.

  An ostrich has a kick like a mule, but he can’t use it sitting down, and Mr. Boomschmidt’s ceiling was so low that Oscar couldn’t stand up straight enough to kick. He was cranky and stuck-up, even for an ostrich, and Freddy knew he would have trouble with him. He thought he might as well get it over. He got up and went across the room and slapped the big bird twice across the beak.

  “Dad rat ye!” he said furiously. “Get out of here!” He tugged angrily at his beard. “Go on—git! You ain’t going to be on any team I coach.”

  “Dad rat ye!” he said furiously.

  The slaps had hurt Freddy a lot worse than they had hurt Oscar, but Oscar didn’t know that. He couldn’t kick, so he hunched as far away from Freddy as he could. �
��You big bully! You wouldn’t dare do that if we were outside!” he said.

  “Probably not,” Freddy said. “But we ain’t outside, and I ain’t going to have anything to do with ye outside. Git!”

  “Well, I must say, you take a great deal upon yourself—” said Oscar “—ordering me out of Mr. Boom’s house! Really, Mr. Boom, I think this person should leave instead of I.”

  “Me,” said Mr. Boomschmidt.

  “You?” said Oscar. “Certainly you should not-”

  “No, no, no, Oscar!” Mr. Boomschmidt interrupted. “You said ‘instead of I,’ and you should have said ‘instead of me.’”

  “Instead of you?” Oscar was puzzled. “But why should I have said that? Nobody suggested that you leave.”

  “Goodness me, of course not,” Mr. Boomschmidt said. “But you said—”

  “Excuse me, chief,” put in Leo, “but I’m getting kind of dizzy. If somebody’s got to leave, suppose I go. I need air.”

  “Yuh, thut’s right, ’Restes,” said Mr. Hercules in his heavy voice. “Uh dunno what yuh talkin’ about.”

  “Well, skip it then,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, though it was plain that he was reluctant to stop trying to confuse everybody. “And let’s come back to Mr. Arquebus. He’s the boss of the team, Oscar. If he says you can’t play, why my gracious, I guess you can’t.”

  Oscar had been looking faintly cross-eyed with the effort to sort out “I” and “me” and find out what he had said wrong. He hadn’t much brain and what he had was easily confused, so nobody was much surprised when he said: “But he promised I could play!”

  “You can,” Freddy said. “But if you do, you ain’t going to give me any of your sass. And you’re going to obey orders. If you don’t I’ll get rid of you so quick you’ll be going out the gate before you know you’re fired.”

  Oscar sniffed, but obviously it was just a sort of general sniff and not directed at Freddy. Ostriches sniff a good deal, just to show how superior they would like to be to everybody else. If they were really superior, they wouldn’t sniff. They wouldn’t have to.