A sliver of new moon was setting in the west when Robert stepped up onto the top cellar step. “Friends and fellow canines,” he said, and all across the clearing, he could see hundreds of tails slowly wagging. From that moment, he knew that he had his audience with him.
He began with some discussion of the traditional friendship between dog and man. The dog, he said, was man’s elder brother. He guarded and watched over him; no other animal so had man’s trust and liking. Their relationship was founded on mutual affection. And so on.
On the other hand, Robert went on, the dog and the rat were natural enemies. The dog was straightforward, trusting, and reliable; the rat was dishonest, sneaky, and disloyal. Simon, who had set himself up to be dictator over an animal empire, was no exception. “If we accept his rule,” Robert said, “we will lose that which we value most, our freedom. In place of affection, there will be suspicion; in place of kindness, cruelty; in place of trust, hypocrisy.
“Now, my friends, many of us have felt hopeless in the face of these dark days that have fallen upon us. Many of our friends have gone over to the side of the revolutionists; our masters have been driven from their homes or shut up in them like prisoners. I cannot speak for other animals, but I think that few dogs look forward with any confidence to a life under a dictator. The novelty of the idea that the animals can take over is, I think, the reason why it has been taken up so enthusiastically by many of our neighbors. Looked at more closely, the idea is completely unsound.
“But what can we do? Singly, my friends, nothing! But look about you. In this clearing about the Grimby house tonight, there are enough of us, were we but banded together, to drive wolves and cattle and horses back to where they came from. And to keep them there. To bring back the good old times that we long for, and to keep them here. My friends, what do you say, shall we bring them back?”
The wagging tails in the clearing were like a wind-tossed lake, and the dogs barked frantic applause. When it had died down, Robert said: “My proposal is that we form into regiments of a hundred dogs each. You realize that this will be military service; those of you who have the job of protecting a farm or a home will have to give up that job while you are on duty. But if we do organize, and stick to our duty, I don’t think it will be long before we can all go home.”
Dogs have a good sense of discipline. Before the meeting broke up, there were four regiments organized and standing to attention under Robert, Shep, and two wise old cow dogs from Dutch Flats, Hughie and Bosco. The regiments were to alternate service every two days, but two were to be on duty at all times, one at headquarters, the Bean farm, the other on patrol duty.
As soon as Ezra learned of these new developments, he divided his forces into two groups, one based on the cellar of the Grimby house, the other on the cave. Now his patrols, which had been in the habit of going out by threes and fours to keep order among the farms which he controlled, had to go out by twenties, and even this wasn’t enough if a patrol ran into one of the dog regiments. For even one cow dog could handle a dozen cows, and though few single dogs were a match for a wolf, a hundred dogs could make mincemeat of a small wolf pack.
But neither dogs nor wolves believed this until it came to a trial. Freddy was up on the back road with the First Regiment. He was riding his bicycle, as he frequently did when he went out with the dogs. Some of the bumblebees of the A.B.I. had brought word that there were two patrols in the neighborhood; one had just left Schermerhorn’s where there had been a report that Mr. Schermerhorn had shot at a wolf the previous night, and to punish him for this, he had been ordered to sleep in the barn and wash at the pump from now on. Both patrols were moving towards the Bean farm.
From where Freddy stood, the ground sloped away sharply to the south. Down the slope, his own pig pen and the chicken house were visible, though the rest of the Bean buildings were shut from view by the trees of Mr. Bean’s woods. On the other side of the road was the Big Woods. As he watched, half a dozen wolves trotted out into the open space around the pig pen, sat down, lifted their muzzles in the air, and began to howl.
“My gosh,” said Freddy, “they’re after the chickens! Look, Robert, there come some horses and a couple of those tough cows. They’re backing up to kick the door in! Robert, we must do something!”
“Don’t see what we can do,” the collie replied. “We can’t tackle those wolves. We could drive the horses and cattle all right, but those wolves will tear us to pieces. What could poor little Georgie do against a wolf?”
Freddy looked around at the dogs who were lying about at the side of the road or sniffing about in the brush. “You’re almost as big as a wolf, Robert,” he said, “and so are half these dogs. If half a dozen poor little Georgies—beagles and cockers and fox terriers—are on the other end of your wolf, I should think you could manage him all right. Darn it, look! they’re starting on the door. By George, if you won’t order a charge, I’ll go down and tackle them alone.” And he got astride his bicycle, which was pointed downhill at the edge of the road, and put a foot on the pedal.
The dogs had heard him and crowded about him to look. Whether he would really have charged alone down the slope to the rescue of his friends is open to some doubt. What happened was that his foot slipped, gave a strong push on the pedal, and the next thing he knew, he was careering down the hill. His yell of dismay must have been taken by the dogs as the order to charge, for within seconds, they were bounding along beside him—matching bound for bound, for the ground was hummocky and uneven and it was a miracle that he managed to keep to the saddle, or rather to come back down on it after each tremendous bound.
Faster and faster the ground whizzed by, and as his speed increased, the noses of the leading dogs fell back. By the time he reached the pig pen, he was a good three lengths in the lead, and he was having less and less contact with the saddle of his bicycle. Fortunately, when the bicycle finally crashed head-on into a long-horned cow, Freddy was not on it. He was in the middle of a bound, a good two feet above the saddle. Consequently, he was above the cow; he flew right over her and knocked the wind out of a wolf.
He flew right over her and knocked the wind out of a wolf.
He scrambled to his feet; the wolf was out cold, and the cow was still entangled with the bicycle; but all around him was a leaping, snarling, snapping whirlpool of wolves and dogs and cows. Freddy thought he had better get into it. A wolf’s hind leg went by; he grabbed it and crunched.
A pig’s teeth are sharp and he has a lot of them. That crunch was no joke. The wolf twisted around and tried to slash Freddy, but Freddy shook him out straight and crunched harder; and after trying this a few times, the wolf gave in. “Leggo,” he said. “I quit. I give in.”
Freddy was so astonished at having won a fight with a wolf that for a moment he just hung on.
“Hey, quit it,” said the wolf. “I said I gave up. What do you want—to chew that leg right off me?”
So Freddy let go and the wolf limped off and lay down in the shade of the pig pen and panted.
The fight was going badly for the revolutionists. The cows and horses had had their ankles nipped unmercifully, and when they turned to threaten their tormentors with hoofs or horns, other dogs started nipping and driving them. One little dog was from Centerboro—he was a beagle named Sweetie-Pie who belonged to Mrs. Lafayette Bingle, and who in the early days of the revolution had chased Dr. Wintersip up a tree—this Sweetie-Pie was so good at it that after the fight he was appointed Captain in Charge of Cows, and a few months later left Mrs. Bingle and took a job as cow dog on a big farm in the south of the county. Now the cows were in full retreat, and the wolves too were trying to pull out of the fight.
And, suddenly, the dogs found that there wasn’t anybody to fight. Except for half a dozen wolves who had been bitten up and were too exhausted to run, and the cow who had got entangled with Freddy’s bicycle, the enemy was gone. And then the door of the pig pen opened and Charles strutted out.
“Well fou
ght, lads,” he said. “Well fought indeed! It is to my deep regret that I could not give you a hand, for the bolt stuck again and I could not get the door open. But though unhappily it was not I who led you on to victory, my hearty thanks to you, one and all.”
Sweetie-Pie turned from the rooster to Robert. “Who’s this cannibal?” he asked.
“My good sir,” said Charles pompously, “your ignorance regarding my name and—er, accomplishments is perhaps to be excused on the ground that you are a stranger to this part of the country. I am Charles. Does that satisfy you?”
“It’s no more than I expected,” said the dog darkly. And then with sudden ferocity, he shouted: “My name is Sweetie-Pie; you want to make something of it?”
Charles started back in alarm. “Make something? I fail to see what one could make—that is, no, it’s a very pretty name. Your owner must be very fond of you to call you such a pretty name.”
“Fond of me!” Sweetie-Pie shrieked. “I’m the worst-tempered dog in Centerboro! I chase bicycles and bite postmen and pick on cats! So would you if you had a name like that. Laugh, Why don’t you? Laugh and see what happens to those tail feathers.”
Charles was like most stupid people, he was not stupid all the time. He had occasional flashes of common sense, and even of brilliance. He had one now. He saw clearly why Sweetie-Pie was bad-tempered, and he said: “Yes, I guess I would. But you can change your name, can’t you? What’s the matter with Fritz? Or Tige? They’re good names.”
“Sure they are. But how could I change when everybody on the block calls me Sweetie-Pie?”
But Charles was tired of the dog’s troubles, and besides he wanted to make a speech before the regiment drifted away again. “I guess that’s your problem,” he said, and hopped up on the garden chair beside the door.
“Friends and noble rescuers,” he began, “on behalf of my dear wife, my twenty-seven innocent children, and myself, I wish to tender you my heartfelt thanks and gratitude—” But after the first perfunctory cheer, the animals turned to discussing what should be done with the prisoners, and they paid no more attention to Charles. So I don’t know why we should either.
CHAPTER
16
Most of the animals who had besieged the pig pen had run away but the dogs had rounded up half a dozen cows, and there were as many wolves who were too exhausted to run. “If we let ’em go,” Freddy said, “we’ll just have to fight ’em all over again. I bet Mr. Camphor would let us have his garage and stable—it’s a big place and built of stone. Make a swell prison. Come on, you wolves. Up on your legs. We’re going for a walk.”
It took them two hours to get to Mr. Camphor’s. None of the wolves was seriously injured; they were worn-out rather than badly bitten; and the cows had had their ankles nipped until they had to hobble. As they stumbled through the gate, Mr. Camphor and his guests came out on the terrace to meet them.
“Goodness me,” said Mr. Camphor, “look at all the dogs. You going hunting, Freddy?”
“We’ve been,” said the pig, and explained.
Mr. Camphor said, of course, they could use the garage. “I’d like to move Simon out there too. We’re pretty sick of his raving and threatening and calling names, and the only way we can stop him is to make him seasick—and that’s sort of cruel. Out there, he can talk his head off, and we’ll let his friends suffer.”
But when they went into the drawing room, Simon was gone, cage and all.
Nobody knew anything about it. Nobody had been in the room that morning; most of Mr. Camphor’s involuntary guests avoided it, since they were tired of the rat’s mingled threats and pleadings. Only Miss Anguish spent some time there; she said he was such an interesting conversationalist. But, of course, nobody could ever figure out what her idea of conversation was.
Freddy at first was inclined to suspect Miss Anguish. He thought that if in exchange for helping him to escape, Simon had promised her a high position in the new government, she might have released him. Or he might have promised her a new car; or a canary in a cage. There was no telling what kind of a bribe might have taken her fancy. But, presently, he had news that turned his suspicions in another direction.
Jacob and the five wasps who had been left to guard Mr. Garble came flying in to report that their prisoner had escaped. “We ought to have guessed what he was up to, Freddy. He had a pocketful of these cigars he smokes—I don’t know the name of ’em and don’t want to, they smell like burning rubber even before he lights ’em. Well, he started to smoke six of ’em at once—lit ’em all and then took a couple of fast puffs on each one. Boy, what a smell!
“We didn’t do anything; if he wanted to poison himself, it was O.K. with us. But pretty soon, we began to get kind of groggy ourselves. And by then, it was too late. We passed out, Freddy. And when we came to—no Garble, no cigars, nothing but an awful smell. He’d forced up the window and got away.
“Gosh, Freddy, I’m awful sorry. But who could have suspected anything like that?”
“Nobody,” Freddy said. “You weren’t to blame. He just outsmarted us. He probably got in touch with Ezra or Zeke and came up here and cut Simon down. Anybody could walk in after all the folks had gone to bed. We ought to have had a guard on him.”
For the next few days, nothing was heard of Mr. Garble and Simon. Mr. Garble would not have dared return to Mrs. Underdunk’s, where he made his home, for a warrant was out for his arrest on the charge of attempting to overthrow the government. The order was out, too, to shoot Simon at sight. In the meantime, animals and farmers fought a guerrilla warfare over the countryside; farms were freed, and retaken; the Macy farm changed hands five times in one night. But whenever one of the dog regiments met a band of the wild northern horses and cattle, it was the dogs who won. And nearly all the wolves had disappeared. That one fight at the pig pen had been enough for them. Freddy felt sure that it was organizing the loyal dogs that had broken the back of the revolution.
Every day, more of the domestic animals, who in the first days had enthusiastically joined the revolutionists, gave themselves up and asked to be taken back by their human masters. Even the rabbits, now that they were no longer kept continually stirred up by Simon’s speeches at the Grimby house, began to think that the dictatorship of a rat wasn’t going to be much of an improvement on their old way of life. A number of them threw stones at Jinx—who they, of course, supposed was still managing the Bean farm for Simon.
If it was the fight with the dogs which had discouraged the wolves, and to a lesser extent the tough northern cows and horses, it was the “votes for animals” movement which had influenced many of the animals from local farms to abandon the revolutionists and return to their homes. A very short experience under a dictatorship had shown them how little freedom they could expect, and the thought of being able to vote for a candidate of their own choosing was very pleasing to them. Several delegations called secretly on Mr. Camphor and pledged their aid in case he should run for governor.
But although farms had been liberated, not all the exiled farmers had returned to their homes, and many farms were still run by the rebel animals. Jinx no longer pretended to run the Bean farm; now that Simon and Mr. Garble had escaped, both he and Freddy had been unmasked, and knew that their lives were in danger. For bands of revolutionists still roamed the countryside, and the A.B.I. reported that there were still heavy concentrations of the enemy in the woods to the west of the lake.
One evening after supper, Freddy was sitting at his typewriter in the pig pen, deep in composition of a poem entitled The Charge of the Dog Brigade. This effusion was to commemorate the famous fight at the pig pen, and more particularly, of course, Freddy’s gallant leadership of the charge. For he had very prudently told nobody that it was a slip of the foot, and not a sudden gallant and fearless impulse, that had started him charging down that hill in the teeth of the enemy.
Half a field, half a field,
Half a field onward,
Down to brave Fred
dy’s pen
Tore the one hundred.
“Forward the Dog Brigade!
Charge!” gallant Freddy said.
Into the valley of death
Rode the one hundred.
Wolves to the right of them,
Cows to the left of them,
Horses in front of them
Hollered and thundered;
Struck at with iron shoes,
Yelled at with howls and moos,
Into the jaws of death
Charged the one hundred.
He had got this far when, at a light tap on the door, he looked out of the window. Charles and his family were walking around outside, guarded by two dogs. And in front of the door stood Mr. Camphor and Miss Anguish.
“Oh gosh,” Freddy said, “they would come when the place isn’t picked up!”
Jinx was curled up on the bed. He got up, stretched, and joined Freddy at the window. “When would that be?” he asked. “To my knowledge, that piece of string has been on the floor in the same place since last Christmas when you unwrapped your presents. Anyway, who is it? Your window’s so dirty I can’t see.”
“I like it that way,” said Freddy. “Makes it more interesting, speculating. But I think I hear Mr. Camphor’s voice.”
“Well, for Pete’s sake, let him in!” exclaimed the cat. “You can’t pick up this place in two minutes. Take more like two years. Oh, all right,” he said, as Freddy still hesitated; “I’ll let ’em in myself.” And he went to the door and flung it open. “Enter, sir and lady,” he said, with a deep bow. “Enter the poet’s lair. See the poet himself at work, hammering out the hexameters, enshrining in deathless verse his own two-cent exploits, his eye in fine frenzy rolling —nay, practically popping out of his head in self-admiration—”
Freddy and Simon the Dictator Page 11
