Freddy Goes Camping

by Walter R. Brooks

  “I hope you’ll excuse my wearing my cap,” he said. “You see, I …” Then he stopped. He couldn’t think of any reason why Dr. Hopper couldn’t take the cap off.

  But Mrs. Filmore was too upset to care. “I’ve given up guessing what it’s all about,” she said. She pointed to the window, in which there was a small round hole. “That was the shot you heard. There was a face, and I fired at it. I couldn’t have missed. But when I went outside there was nothing there.” She got up. “You’ll excuse me, but it’s getting late and I must go.”

  They helped her carry the bags out to the car. As they watched the red tail-light bobbing and jigging over the rough narrow track that followed the shore three miles out to the state road, Mr. Camphor sighed. “I don’t know what the poor woman’s going to live on. Every cent she had was in this hotel. A haunted hotel! My goodness, what could you do with that?”

  “I bet she could get a lot of people to come and stay,” said Freddy. “People who want to show off how brave they are.”

  “Not if she couldn’t get cooks and waitresses to stay. I guess I’m brave enough to meet a ghost, but I’m not brave enough to stay at a hotel where they don’t serve meals.”

  “No, I guess I’m not either. You know what Napoleon said: an army travels on its stomach.”

  “On its stomach!” Mr. Camphor exclaimed. “Ha, I’d like to see an army do that. It couldn’t make a mile a day.”

  “I think he meant that an army can’t be brave unless it has plenty to eat,” Freddy said.

  “Well, why didn’t he say so then? That’s a pretty roundabout way of saying something that everybody knows anyway.” He turned quickly to Freddy. “Look,” he said, “we’ve had plenty to eat. We’re so full of flapjacks that our arms and legs stick right out straight like those little rubber balloon men that you blow up. We ought to be brave enough to tackle a haunted house. What do you say we spend the night here? Maybe we could find out something about this ghost, eh?”

  “Why, sure, sure,” Freddy said. “Only—well, had we ought to leave all our stuff unprotected?”

  “Who’s going to run off with it—the squirrels and the chipmunks?”

  “No, but we’re supposed to be camping—roughing it, sort of. Isn’t it kind of sissy to spend the very first night you’re out camping in a hotel?”

  “H’m,” said Mr. Camphor, “well now you mention it I guess you’re right. Anyway, we can see better to explore the place by daylight.” He turned to lead the way back along the trail, and then swung round suddenly. “No!” he said determinedly. “We’re just kidding ourselves. We’re afraid—we’re scared of all those empty rooms, and the darkness and the noises. Well anyway, I am.”

  Freddy glanced at the black bulk of the hotel and thought of those heavy knocks, and of faces looking in the windows—ferocious Indian faces—and shivered. “Oh, dear,” he said; “I remember saying to somebody, or was it somebody said it to me?—anyway it was when that Ignormus had us all so scared, and I said, or somebody said, if you were scared of something you ought to walk right up to it and say Boo! And then you’d find there wasn’t anything to be scared of at all.” He shivered again. “It—it seemed a good idea at the time.”

  “I don’t think saying Boo is such a good idea,” Mr. Camphor said. “I mean, what would it get you? I mean, a ghost—wouldn’t he think you were kind of silly if you just stood there and said Boo?—Oh, come on, Fred—I mean, Doctor. We’re going to feel pretty cheap tomorrow morning if we just go back to the camp now.”

  So Freddy said unhappily: “All right,” and they went back into the hotel. In the office they relit the oil lamp, then brought two long cushioned wicker settees in from the lounge, and, turning the light down a little, had just settled comfortably on them when …

  Tap, tap, tap, tap. Somebody was rapping on the window.

  Freddy shut his eyes tight and pretended not to hear anything.

  Tap, tap, tap! Slower and louder. Freddy felt a procession of ants with very cold feet walking up his backbone.

  “D—did you hear something?” Mr. Camphor whispered.

  Freddy gave a gentle snore.

  “Oh, come on,” said Mr. Camphor. “You can’t be asleep yet. Look, you’re facing that window—I can’t see it without turning around, and I—I might scare ’em. Just take a peek, will you?”

  But Freddy wasn’t taking any peeks. He didn’t see how he could be any more scared than he was, but he knew if he saw what was at the window he would be. He squeezed his eyelids so tight together that he saw stars and pinwheels.

  Rap, rap, crash! Something had smashed the window, and as the bits of glass tinkled on the floor, Freddy and Mr. Camphor jumped up and grabbed each other. Looking through the jagged hole in the glass was the head of a huge cat. It was as big as a man’s head and it had fierce whiskers. It stared ferociously at them and then dropped out of sight.

  It was as big as a man’s head and it had fierce whiskers.

  They hung on to each other for a minute, then Mr. Camphor let go and ran over and pulled down the windowshade while Freddy turned up the lamp.

  Mr. Camphor’s teeth still chattered a little as he said reproachfully: “You hadn’t ought to have tried to get behind me, Freddy.”

  “Get behind you!” Freddy exclaimed. “It was you that was trying to get behind me!”

  “Oh, well,” said Mr. Camphor, “I guess we were both trying to get behind each other. And that would be kind of hard, wouldn’t it? We might try it again sometime when we aren’t busy. I guess …” He stopped short and grabbed Freddy’s shoulder. “Look!” For the door into the darkened lounge, which they had pulled shut, was opening very, very slowly.

  And as it opened they backed, just as slowly, away from it. They backed, without thinking of it, right up against the window. And when their shoulders touched the drawn shade, from outside, almost in their ears, came a long wailing screech.

  That finished them. They both jumped a foot in the air, and when they came down they were running. They jammed together for a moment in the doorway, and the next thing they knew, they were half way down the trail to Stony Point. They only stopped then because Mr. Camphor tripped over a root and fell, and Freddy stumbled over him.

  They lay panting where they had fallen. “Lucky—didn’t break our necks,” Mr. Camphor wheezed. For they had of course left their lantern in the hotel, and though the night was clear, there was no moon, and the starshine was too faint to be of any use to eyes that had just left a lighted room.

  Gradually their eyes became accustomed to the darkness and they got up and went on. Their campfire had burned down, but the embers still glowed, and when they threw on fresh wood the flames leaped up and the light flickered on the green leaves and brown tree trunks that surrounded them, on the bottom of the overturned canoe and on the …“Where on earth is the tent?” Freddy said suddenly.

  They ran over to it. It was there, but it was a complete wreck. The loops by which it was pegged to the ground were cut so that the center pole had fallen over, there were long slits in the canvas, and all their supplies were scattered about outside. Everything that could be torn was torn, and everything that could be spilt was spilt.

  “The canoe, Freddy!” Mr. Camphor exclaimed, and they hurried down to the beach. But the canoe hadn’t been touched.

  “You know, that’s funny,” he said. “They smashed everything else; why leave the canoe?”

  “Maybe it’s kind of a hint that they want us to get in it and go,” said Freddy.

  “Maybe so. But smashing our stuff would be hint enough, wouldn’t it? My goodness, I’m glad they just hinted and didn’t say right out what they meant.” He went back and began poking around in the wreckage. “Well, here’s the frying pan and the pail. The canned stuff is all right. And we’ve got a hatchet. Why Freddy, with these and our sleeping bags we’ve still got a camping outfit. You know, maybe I’m the kind of person that can’t take a hint, because I don’t think I’m going back home—I�
�m going right on with this camping trip. We’ll paddle across tomorrow and get some guns, so if these people give us any more hints, we can hint right back at them. How about it?”

  Freddy said: “It wasn’t any ghost that wrecked the camp, and I want to look it over by daylight. Maybe there’ll be some clues. Sure, I’ll stick. But where will we sleep?”

  “In the sleeping bags. They’re not entirely ruined. And I guess it will be a pretty tough mosquito that’ll try to get through this smell of mothballs to bite us.

  “But it might rain. We’d better build a lean-to shelter. Let’s see, we want about three ten-foot poles and some shorter ones. We can roof it with what’s left of the tent. Let’s have the hatchet.”

  Chapter 6

  Mr. Camphor had been right: they slept peacefully. The mosquitoes came singing through the trees, gave one sniff, and then flew off, whining angrily, in search of more savory game. The ghost didn’t bother them either. And when they woke up in the morning, and the sun was slanting through the trees and sparkling on the lake, they felt a lot more cheerful.

  Only there wasn’t anything for breakfast.

  “Why can’t we paddle across and have breakfast at your house?” said Freddy.

  “With Aunt Minerva?” Mr. Camphor inquired.

  “H’m,” said Freddy. “Burnt toast. Let’s see if there aren’t some supplies in the hotel.”

  They washed in the lake—Freddy had to keep his coonskin cap on for fear of being recognized by the woods animals, but he got the lower part of his face clean—and then took the trail to Lakeside. Mr. Camphor went out to the kitchen, but Freddy said he wanted to go into the office to look for clues.

  He found one almost at once. A long piece of cord was tied to the outside knob of the door that opened into the lounge. “So that was the way our ghost made the door open so slowly,” he said to himself.

  In the office he looked in the desk drawer for Mrs. Filmore’s pistol, but it was gone. “The ghost came back after we left,” he thought. “Probably wanted to get that gun. That’s why he opened that door and then ran around outside and yelled at the window so we’d clear out.”

  Pretty soon Mr. Camphor came back from the kitchen. “Nothing there,” he said. “But I found half a loaf of bread and a glass of currant jelly.”

  Freddy showed him the cord.

  “Our ghost, eh?” he said. “How disappointing! Dear me, I’d almost begun to believe in him.”

  Freddy said: “I should think you’d be glad to find out that whoever is causing all this trouble is real flesh and blood.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’d much rather have a ghost to fight. What can a ghost do?”

  “He can scare you half to death.”

  “And that’s all he can do,” said Mr. Camphor. “He can’t sneak up and hit you with a club. All he can do is yell in your ear. I bet you if a ghost jumped out and yelled at you, and you just laughed at him, he’d burst into tears. My goodness, I feel kind of sorry for ghosts; they can’t do a thing but glide around in sheets and moan and make scary noises. I suppose that’s why they don’t ever seem to accomplish much.”

  “Well, you can have your ghosts,” Freddy said. “I’d rather be hit with a club than scared into fits. And how about that giant cat that looked in the window—was that real?”

  “Oh, it was real all right. I never saw a cat that big, but it might be some kind of leopard. I’ve heard of people training them to hunt. If it was …” He shivered.

  “It was a man in a false face,” said Freddy. “Oh, yes it was! Because I saw its eyes move, and they were brown. I’ve seen cats with yellow eyes, and with green, and even blue ones, but I never yet saw a cat with brown eyes.”

  “You know what I think?” said Mr. Camphor after a minute. “That man, whoever he is, is trying to scare people away from this hotel. He’s been pretty successful at it, so he’ll keep on playing ghost. And that means that he won’t show himself in the daytime. So today is our chance to look around and try to find out something about him.”

  They ate their bread and jelly and then went to work. “You know,” said Mr. Camphor, “what puzzles me is how the ghost gets up here. And where does he go in the daytime? He can’t just live in the woods; he must come nights. I checked the tire marks out in the road—the only ones are Mrs. Filmore’s.”

  “I guess he glides,” Freddy said. “You know—just comes kind of floating through the trees with a kind of faint fizzing noise.”

  “Let’s have a look at the cellar,” said Mr. Camphor. “You can tell more about folks by looking around their cellar than anywhere else in the house.”

  The cellar was a mess. A water pipe had burst and flooded it and evidently Mrs. Filmore hadn’t been able to get the break repaired. She had just turned the water off. Freddy examined the pipe, then he said: “Look here—this pipe didn’t break; it was gnawed.”

  “Oh, go on,” said Mr. Camphor. “I don’t believe even an alligator could gnaw through an iron pipe.”

  “I don’t suppose one ever tried,” Freddy said. “Anyway, this pipe isn’t iron,—it’s lead. And look at the teeth marks. My guess is if we look again at those beams that fell down under the porch, we’ll find the same marks.” He looked meaningly at his friend. “And do you know who made them?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Mr. Camphor protested. “I didn’t do it.”

  “No ghost has strong enough teeth to do it either,” said Freddy. “Rats did it. And I’m afraid I know their names.”

  “You don’t mean those rats that were in my attic last year?”

  “Simon and his gang—yes. After we drove them out of your house they could have got around the lake and up here, I suppose. This is just the kind of place they like—a big rambling building with a storeroom full of food. Let’s look at the pantry.”

  But there was no sign of rats in the pantry, nor could they find any rat holes anywhere in the hotel.

  “That’s queer,” Freddy said. “I’m sure it was rats that tore up those hotel bedrooms, and it was rats that wrecked our camp: those tent loops were gnawed, not cut. It’s the kind of vandalism rats think is fun. But I never knew ’em to pass up a good feed, and that pantry must have been full of supplies.”

  “Speaking of supplies,” said Mr. Camphor, “I’d better paddle over and get some.”

  Freddy said maybe he’d better go—he wanted to get Mrs. Wiggins’ advice.

  “All right,” said Mr. Camphor. “Can you manage a canoe?”

  Until Mr. Camphor had paddled him across the lake yesterday, Freddy had never been in a canoe. But it had looked pretty easy. “Oh, sure,” he said confidently. So they went back to camp, and Freddy turned the canoe over and slid it into the water and got in.

  Now when he sat down in the stern seat, his weight made the bow come right up out of the water. He took a stroke with the paddle as he had seen Mr. Camphor do. But instead of going ahead, the canoe swung halfway around, and a second stroke whirled it farther, so that it was now pointing back to the shore.

  His weight made the bow come right up out of the water.

  “You’ll have to put a rock in the bow to keep it down,” Mr. Camphor called. “You won’t be able to manage it at all when you get out where there’s a breeze.”

  Freddy could see that this made sense, but how was he to get a rock? He was ten yards from shore. He tried two more strokes, and then he was twenty yards from shore, and had made one more complete revolution.

  “The blame thing keeps skidding!” he shouted. “How do you make it go straight?”

  Mr. Camphor shouted back some instructions, but the breeze had caught the canoe now and blown it still farther out, and Freddy couldn’t understand the words. He paddled furiously, and the harder he paddled the faster he whirled, and every time he came around he saw Mr. Camphor standing on the shore, yelling and waving his arms, and growing smaller and smaller in the distance.

  It was a good thing for Freddy that the breeze was blowing in the direction he w
anted to go, or goodness knows where he would have ended up. As it was, he was blown right across the lake and landed not far from Mr. Camphor’s house. Bannister, who had been watching, came down and helped pull the canoe up, and told him that Mrs. Wiggins had gone back home.

  “I’ll have to go down, too,” said Freddy. “There are some things I have to see to at the farm. Here’s a list of things Mr. Camphor made out; if you’ll get them ready I’ll be back this afternoon and … Golly, how’ll I get across the lake?”

  But Bannister said he could paddle him over, so when Freddy had taken off his camping disguise—which wasn’t necessary on this side of the lake—he started for the Bean farm.

  Mrs. Wiggins had told the animals all about Lakeside, and about Mr. Camphor’s aunts, and they crowded around Freddy, firing questions, and suggesting plans for getting rid of Miss Elmira and Miss Minerva.

  “Quiet! Quiet!” he said. “I can’t hear myself think. Now listen, animals. Mrs. Wiggins has told you that our friend Mr. Camphor is in need of help. But the case is more serious than we thought. It’s a question of getting rid, not only of aunts, but of a gang of … I don’t know what to call them, because I don’t know just what they are up to. But I can tell you who I think one of them is: our old friend, Simon.”

  The animals exclaimed. “Simon! That scaly-tailed old sneak! Let’s go up and lick ’em; we did it once!”

  Charles, the rooster, flew up on a fence post. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried. “Comrades on many a hard-fought field! You have heard the glorious news. Again our ancient enemy raises his foul head; again, the leader of a cruel and vindictive horde of savage barbarians, he menaces the peace that like a soft blanket broods over the hills of Bean. Rise, animals, in your might; let the old battle cry resound: Claws and teeth, comrades; claws and teeth!—Ouch!” he yelled suddenly, as his wife, Henrietta, seized him by the tailfeathers and pulled him down.

  “You and your brooding blanket!” she said sarcastically. “You and your foul head! Now you rise in your might and go on back to the henhouse, so we can hear what Freddy has to say.”