Freddy and Simon the Dictator

by Walter R. Brooks

  “Kindly step out of the car, Mr. Garble,” he said.

  But Mr. Garble didn’t. He whipped out a pistol and presented it at Freddy’s nose. “One side, pig,” he said. “And tell your friends to let me by.”

  “One side, pig,” he said, “and tell your friends to let me by.”

  Simon sat up on the seat beside Mr. Garble, rubbing his forepaws together. “Well, upon my soul,” he said, “if it isn’t my silly old comrade, Freddy. Somehow, I felt that we might have a reunion this summer. Truly, a festive occasion. Let us celebrate it with fireworks. Pull the trigger, Mr. Garble,” he said savagely.

  “I really wouldn’t, Mr. Garble, sir,” said Bannister, who had popped up at the other window with an even larger pistol which he pointed at the man.

  Mr. Garble lowered his gun, but kept it pointed at the pig. “It seems to be a stand-off,” he said. “Suppose we just both put away our guns and go quietly home.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Freddy said. “O.K., Jake.” And at that, the wasps rose in a swarm from his hat and went for Mr. Garble and Simon.

  Simon was lucky. He and the other rats jumped from the car and scuttled off into the woods. But Mr. Garble couldn’t get out quickly, because Freddy was holding the door. He yelped and shrieked, and finally ended up crouched on the floor with his coat over his head, before Freddy called the wasps off.

  He had some trouble calling them off. “Have a heart, Freddy,” said Jacob. “This is more fun than twenty conventions. Darn it, I bet I bent my sting on his collarbone that time.”

  But Freddy was firm. “I just want to kidnap him,” he said; “I don’t want him sick in bed.” He knew that wasps are not cruel by nature; they just take pride in good workmanship. For a wasp, to sink his sting in a tender spot and make his victim yell, is the same as for a ballplayer to hit a homer. I don’t suppose they ever think how it hurts.

  So the wasps went back on Freddy’s hat, and then Garble moved to one side and Freddy slid under the wheel and drove back to the Indian village, followed by the two carloads of Indians. They put Mr. Garble in a room in one of the cabins for the night, but they didn’t lock the door or tie him up. They left six wasps on guard. They thought that would be enough to keep him safe. Then they took the loud-speaker and smashed it up with an ax.

  CHAPTER

  11

  The day after the meeting in the cave the revolutionists began the raids. It was the time which historians of the revolt now call the Reign of Terror. Cars were stopped and overturned all over the county; farmers, starting out to do their morning chores, were driven back into the house; cows refused to come in at milking time; several barns were set fire to. In Centerboro, cats were insolent to their mistresses, horses went out of their way to insult people on the street, a car with a black dog at the wheel roared up Main Street and knocked over several pedestrians. A rabble of cows and horses galloped through the business section, overturning trash cans and smashing windows. Dr. Wintersip was chased up a telephone pole by a hitherto quite inoffensive little dog named Sweetie-Pie.

  Warnings that this sort of thing would take place had been printed in both the Bean Home News and the Centerboro Guardian. Nobody paid much attention to them until the outrages began. But now people became alarmed. There was a mass meeting which passed resolutions demanding that the state police restore order. But there wasn’t much the troopers could do. They arrested a horse for kicking in the door of a feed store, and a number of dogs for various offenses, but as these animals had no money for fines, and as there was no animal jail, they were just released with a warning.

  Quietly, a few farms were taken over. A committee of animals would call on the farmer and explain that they were taking over, that the farm work would be done just as before, but that one of their number was now boss from whom the farmer would take orders. Sometimes the farmer was allowed to remain in the house if he agreed, in other cases he was compelled to live in the barn. If he put up a fight he was forcibly ejected.

  Simon hated the Beans and their animals, and consequently it was he who headed the committee that called on Mr. Bean. Probably the rat had some doubt about Jinx’s good faith, for he insisted that the cat take charge of the interview. In consequence, Jinx had no chance to explain his position secretly to the farmer, and Mr. Bean was naturally very angry at him. “You miserable critter,” he said; “why, you’re lower than these rats. After all, they’re acting according to their nature, which is mean and nasty; but you—pah! I’ve no words for such a wretched traitor. What’s your opinion, Mrs. B.?”

  Mrs. Bean wrinkled up her eyes and considered the cat, who did indeed look wretched. Instead of the rather cocky attitude which was usual with him, he had a sheepish look, and he could not meet her gaze. Even his fur looked bedraggled.

  “I don’t know what to say, Mr. B., and that’s the truth,” she said. “When I think of the times he’s sat on my lap, purring while I stroked his fur—and of the saucers of cream I’ve given him—I just can’t understand it.” And then when Jinx shot a quick look at her, she deliberately winked at him.

  “Well I know what to say,” Mr. Bean returned. “I say get out of this kitchen and stay out! Don’t ever come in here again.”

  “Now, Mr. Bean,” said Simon, sitting up and rubbing his forepaws together, “let us not be hasty. Surely you see that our friend Jinx is doing the very best he can for you. He remembers, I am sure, your many kindnesses in the past, and is desirous of repaying them by befriending you during these troubled times.”

  “He could best repay us by breaking your neck,” said the farmer.

  “Tut, tut; such violent language!” said the rat with an oily smile. “Let us have no insults, I beg. Or I might find it necessary to invite my friends in.” He waved towards the window, outside which two tough and rangy-looking cows were peering in. “They would be only too happy to overturn your cookstove, and I presume there is a fire in it? Yes. And then what becomes of your pretty house? No, I think we can arrange things on a friendly basis. Eh, Jinx?”

  “Eh?” said Jinx. “Oh … yes.” Then added with an attempt at great firmness: “We’ll stand no nonsense, Mr. and Mrs. Bean.”

  “Excellent!” said Simon. “And furthermore …? Eh—continue, Jinx.”

  “And furthermore,” said Jinx rather wildly, “while you will be allowed to remain in the house, you will obey my orders in everything. All the hay and grain and food will be in my charge. I will occupy the guest room, and will—”

  “Why, you—!” Mr. Bean jumped to his feet and reached for the lid lifter on the stove. But Mrs. Bean was ahead of him. She pushed him aside. “None of that, Mr. B.,” she said firmly, and scowled at him with such ferocity that he sank back, puzzled, in his chair.

  “Now, Jinx,” she went on, “suppose you come up and show me just how you want the guest room fixed up for you.” She looked at him meaningly. “I remember there were some things about it you didn’t like, and as you are being so good as to let us stay in the house, I’d like to have everything satisfactory.”

  They went up the stairs together as they had hundreds of times in the past. Simon and Mr. Bean both looked after them doubtfully. Then Simon said: “I am glad that Mrs. Bean takes this so well. I realize that it will be a great change for you both, but—”

  “Oh, shut up!” said Mr. Bean.

  Up in the guest room, Mrs. Bean closed the door, then got a broom from the closet. Jinx darted under the bed, but she only laughed. “No, Jinx,” she said. “I know what you’re up to. Now screech for all you’re worth.” And she began whacking the mattress with the broom. So Jinx gave it all he had. You could have heard him up at the duck pond.

  The two cows came up on the back porch and looked in the screen door, but before Simon could call them in, the cat came tearing down the front stairs and with another despairing shriek shoved the door open and ran off.

  Mr. Bean’s laugh fizzled behind his whiskers like a damp firecracker. Mrs. Bean came downstairs, dusting
off her hands. “I guess that settled him,” she said.

  Simon followed the cat out rather hastily but in the doorway he turned. “I’m afraid you don’t take us very seriously, ma’am,” he said. “You may find your mistake when your house is burned down. But we will give you one more chance; we’ll be back presently.”

  And indeed they were back an hour later, accompanied by two big gray wolves.

  Mr. Bean went out on the porch to talk to them. He had a shotgun under his arm which he kept leveled at the wolves.

  “Mr. Bean had a shotgun under his arm which he leveled at the wolves.”

  This time Jinx didn’t say anything. He knew that Mrs. Bean would have told Mr. Bean that he was really on their side, and he was afraid that if he talked very big, Mr. Bean would get to laughing and give the show away.

  Simon made no attempt to be conciliating. He said: “Jinx has persuaded me to give you one more chance. As you quite well know, Bean, I have only contempt for you and your silly animals. And we’ll have no more big talk from you. You’ll do as you’re told. You’ll carry out Jinx’s orders as if they were mine. Any insubordination will be promptly punished.

  “And in case you think you can get away with anything, I will warn you that there are a dozen more wolves who are eager and anxious for trouble. Obey, and there’ll be no damage done. But don’t get it into your head that you can make a fort out of this house and stand us off with that gun. We won’t need to attack you; we will simply lay siege to you and starve you out. For you’ll have to go out some time to get more food, and it will then be an easy matter for these boys to pick you off.”

  Mr. Bean realized the truth of this. He knew that standing a siege wasn’t possible. The animals could even cut off the water, which came down in a pipe from a spring above the house. All they had to do was rip up the pipe. He half raised the gun, and his finger twitched on the trigger. Then without a word, he turned and stomped into the house.

  Jinx came in with him. Mr. Bean watched through the window until Simon and his bodyguard had taken themselves off, then he said: “Well, cat, I hope you’re satisfied. What are your orders for the day?”

  “Now, now, Mr. B.,” said Mrs. Bean, “what Jinx has done, he’s done all for the best. All he’s tried to do is protect us.”

  “And get to sleep on the guest-room bed,” Mr. Bean put in.

  “Please understand me, Mr. Bean,” said the cat. “I don’t want to sleep anywhere but in my regular place, on my pillow, back of the stove. When the rat offered me this job, I had to decide quick, and I said yes because I thought I could make things easier for you, and for my friends. Maybe I decided wrong. I’m getting a lot of criticism and hard looks from those friends, I can tell you. I haven’t dared to tell them why I did it. Though a few of them have enough faith in me to guess why, I think.”

  “I apologize, Jinx,” said Mr. Bean. “I ought to have guessed, I expect. You’ve always been a good cat. But what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to me that the revolt can be successful. The trouble is, we loyal animals aren’t organized. And if we were, we couldn’t fight wolves and wild cows and panthers. But I’m going to talk to some of the animals, and maybe we can do something.”

  Even though most of the Bean animals were loyal, Jinx didn’t feel that he could take the chance of telling them why he had taken the job of bossing the farm. The four mice, who lived in a cigar box under the stove, had of course heard his talk with the Beans, and when he went into the cowbarn, he found that the cows had guessed the truth. “We won’t give you away, Jinx,” Mrs. Wiggins said. “Charles was in here a little while ago and we all talked awful about you.” She laughed her comfortable laugh. “It’s funny, you can think up meaner things to say about somebody you really like than about someone you haven’t got any use for. By the way, Jinx, I rolled up the old flag of the F.A.R. and hid it under that box. There’s still a lot of animals that would rally around it if we hoisted it, you know.”

  “We’ll hoist it at the right time,” said the cat. “But that time isn’t yet.”

  His reception in the loft over the stable was rather different. Charles and Henrietta and their twenty-seven children had taken refuge there from the wolves. Oddly enough, though it was usually Charles that did most of the talking, Henrietta was the one who now had most to say. “Ho!” she exclaimed, “here’s Jinx the rat lover. Never did I think to see the day when Jinx would clasp paws with a shabby contemptible sneak like Simon. You snake in the grass, you rat in cat’s clothing, get out of this loft. It makes me sick to breathe the same air.”

  “Oh come, Henrietta,” said the cat. “You know why I did it. To protect Mr. and Mrs. Bean and you chickens and Freddy and the rest of them. You want the house burned and the Beans driven into exile and you and your family eaten by wolves? That’s what will happen if I don’t run this farm for the rebels. When this is all over, everything will be turned back to the Beans and will be just as it was before.”

  This was perfectly true, but Jinx didn’t expect—or even very much want—the hen to believe it. For if the truth got to Simon, it would be too bad for all of them. Their safety depended on Simon’s trust that Jinx had betrayed his friends.

  Fortunately, Henrietta always believed the worst of everyone. “Fine talk!” she said. She pointed a claw at the cat. “Look at him, children. Look at a vile ignominious blackguard. A false-hearted lying scoundrel. A dirty groveling—”

  “Oh dry up, hen,” said Jinx angrily. He was mad, and after all, you can’t blame him. He thought, and I agree with him, that an old friend like Henrietta might have had a little more faith in him. “Now let me tell you something. You’re moving out of here up to the pig pen. Right away. Our Leader wants this loft for an office. Come on. Pack up.”

  “The pig pen!” Charles exclaimed. “Good heavens, we won’t get a wink of sleep there with Freddy up half the night banging on that typewriter, and snoring like a sawmill the other half.”

  “You’ll get a good long sleep if Simon and his bodyguard of wolves finds you here when he comes back. Come on—it’s orders.”

  Charles didn’t say any more.

  Downstairs, Hank, the old white horse, said: “Jinx, it don’t seem right, it don’t seem right at all, you going over to these rats. Goin’ back on your old friends, seems like. Did I hear you say there’d be wolves comin’ in and out the barn? Wolves! I don’t like wolves. Make me feel kind of twitchy.”

  Jinx could have trusted Hank with the truth, but he didn’t want to speak in front of the chickens. “They won’t bother you,” he said. “See you later, Hank. Come on, Charles, get a move on.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  For several days, the revolutionists had everything their own way. More than fifty farms in the Centerboro district were taken over. The Camphor estate was seized and turned into a sort of concentration camp for farmers who refused to bow to the new authority. The committee, unable to escape in time, were made prisoners, and although they complained bitterly, and in sentences hundreds of words long, were compelled to give in.

  Centerboro had not yet been taken over, and here and there a farmer had resisted, and being well provisioned and having his water supply in a well close to the house, was able to hold out. But these wells, unless actually inside the house, had to be guarded twenty-four hours a day, for Simon had had bags of salt dropped down several of them at night, and their owners had had to surrender.

  Even those farmers who felt that they could hold out were forced, one by one, to surrender, for food supplies began to give out. Simon and Mr. Garble had planned well. Vegetable gardens were rooted up by bands of roving pigs, and fields of grain were systematically trampled by the cattle. Overturned cars on all the roads made road blocks that brought traffic to a standstill, and no food trucks were getting through. Freddy saw that soon the farmers would all be forced into the towns, and then starved out of the towns into the cities—for of course the farms wouldn’t b
e producing any more. He didn’t see what the humans could do. Send out the army against the animals? But the army would have to be fed, and before it could get under way, the food supply would be disorganized.

  Through Mr. Pomeroy and the A.B.I., Freddy was kept well informed of what was going on. He had sent word of the capture of Mr. Garble to Mr. Dimsey, and the Centerboro Guardian came out with an extra, splashing the news in headlines across the front page.

  “GARBLE CAPTURED

  Second in Command of Animal Revolt Incarcerated.

  “Herbert Garble, of 184 Sherman Street, this city, was captured two nights ago by loyal forces, and is in custody at an unspecified location. Mr. Garble, formerly for a time editor of this paper, is reliably asserted to be second in command of the animal revolutionists who are currently threatening our liberties. He is alleged to be the brains behind Simon the Dictator, a rat whose history was related in our last issue.

  “It is said that the $500 reported as stolen from Senator Blunder was found on Mr. Garble’s person. Also, two unironed handkerchiefs belonging to Mr. W. F. Bean, which were stolen from the Bean clothesline some days ago.”

  An editorial at the foot of the page said: “It is hinted that Mr. Garble may be in some bodily danger, as a band of Indians living north of Otesaraga Lake, incensed by his action in bringing wolves into their territory, are said to have sworn vengeance. Should these Indians visit their resentment upon Garble by removing his scalp or otherwise discommoding him, it seems unlikely to us that the authorities would take notice of the action by legal steps to punish them. Mr. Garble has placed himself outside the law.”