The Story of Freginald

by Walter R. Brooks

  But anyway there was no doubt that he was happy. His old mother lived up in Schenectady and now he was able to send her some extra money every week. For a number of years the circus business hadn’t been very good, and although he had always been able to send her enough to live on, there wasn’t enough for little extras like peppermint life-savers and going to the movies—both of which she was very fond of. But now he sent her enough so she could go to the movies every night if she wanted to.

  Only there was one bad thing about sending money to old Mrs. Boomschmidt. She was very generous and when she did get a little extra money, instead of spending it on herself, she would go out and get some yarn and knit her son a fancy vest. She was indeed a beautiful fancy vest knitter. But Mr. Boomschmidt already had twenty-seven fancy vests that she had knitted for him put away in moth balls. And then, too, the old lady was like a good many mothers who can’t seem to realize that their children are growing up. So she knitted all the vests for Mr. Boomschmidt the same size as she had when he was fifteen. And Mr. Boomschmidt couldn’t possibly get into any of them.

  One day he spoke to Freginald about it.

  “My goodness, Freginald,” he said, “what am I going to do about this? Here am I, want to make my mother happy; there’s my mother, wants to make me happy. I send her money she won’t use on herself; she sends me vests I can’t wear. Best intentions on both sides. Come, you’re a smart bear. Think of something.”

  “Couldn’t you tell her you’ve got enough vests?” asked Freginald.

  “Gracious, no,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “Wouldn’t do at all. She might start knitting me suits.”

  “Well, couldn’t you send the next one back and tell her it was too tight under the arms? Then she’d have to unravel it and knit it over again. And then you could send it back again and say it was too loose. You could keep on doing that.”

  “Seems sort of mean to have her do all that work,” said Mr. Boomschmidt.

  “She’s going to do it anyway, sir,” said Freginald. “And she couldn’t spend the money for more yarn for a new one until she got it right.”

  “Why, my goodness! Why, upon my word!” exclaimed Mr. Boomschmidt, pushing his hat back. “I believe you’ve got it. Yes, sir, I’ll go write her right away. Too tight under the arms, hey?” And he hurried off.

  But though everybody in the circus was happy, one thing bothered Freginald. Louise wouldn’t speak to him. She had been mad at him ever since he had made up the poem about her and then told her he didn’t mean what he had said in it. He didn’t like Louise especially, but he didn’t like to have her mad at him, so he tried to be nice to her. But the more he tried, the crosser she got.

  One day Freginald took his lunch and started out to explore an old grassy roadway that wound up into the hills back of the field where the circus was camped. It was a Sunday, very hot and still. Most of the other animals had wandered off to find cool places in which to take naps. And before he had gone half a mile, Freginald got so drowsy he could hardly hold his head up. So he lay down under a tree and dozed off.

  He was awakened by angry voices talking not very far away. He sat up and slapped his nose hard with his paw to get the sleepiness out of his head, and then he sneaked up toward the barn from which the voices came. One of them was Louise’s.

  “I tell you I never touched your nasty old hay,” she was saying. “And you let me out of here or I’ll tell Mr. Boomschmidt.”

  “Kinda sassy, ain’t you?” said the other voice. It was a very small voice, but it sounded pretty vindictive. “Well, how you going to tell him, hey? How you going to tell him if I won’t let you out of the barn?”

  Freginald was close enough now to see what was going on. The barn door was open and in the middle of the doorway stood a very small mouse. Now, elephants aren’t afraid of tigers but they are afraid of mice. If you ask an elephant why, he will giggle and say that the mouse might run up his trunk and tickle him and make him sneeze. Of course no mouse would have the nerve to do any such thing, but the elephants aren’t taking any chances. Merely to think of it will make many elephants sneeze for half an hour.

  “Come, come; what’s going on here?” said Freginald, making his voice as deep as possible. And he walked up to the mouse.

  But the mouse stood his ground. “Don’t you try to bully me!” he squeaked shrilly. And then as Freginald’s paw darted out and pinned his tail to the ground, he struggled to get away, shouting angrily all the time. “You let me go, now! I wasn’t doing anything to your old elephant. You animals think just because you belong to a circus you own the whole country. Don’t you think anybody else has any rights around here?”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Freginald good-naturedly. “Come on out, Louise. It’s all right.”

  Louise came out slowly, edging as far away from the mouse as she could. She was crying and the tears were rolling down her trunk.

  “Oh, gosh, Louise,” said Freginald. “I wish you wouldn’t be such a cry-baby.”

  “Oh, ith that tho?” said Louise beginning to lisp. “Well, all I did wath to go in there to take a nap becauthe it wath cool.”

  “Aw, gee,” said the mouse, beginning to feel a little ashamed of himself when he saw how frightened she was, “I couldn’t hurt you if I wanted to. But you scared me first. I was asleep in the hay and you almost stepped on me. And it made me kind of mad. You circus animals think you’re so smart because you can do tricks. Well, I can do tricks, too. And why should you be the only ones to travel around the country and perform for big audiences and have your pictures in store windows?”

  Freginald had taken his paw off the mouse’s tail and he said: “What tricks can you do?”

  The mouse said he could do fancy diving and he led them around to the watering-trough on the other side of the barn and did jackknifes and swan dives and standing-sitting-standing something-or-others until even Louise got interested and forgot to be afraid of him any more.

  “Why, you’re awfully good,” she said.

  “Sure I’m good,” said the mouse, sitting down on the edge of the trough and wiping the water off his whiskers. “But what does it get me around here? Look, wouldn’t your Mr. Boomschmidt give me a job?”

  “Let’s go see,” said Freginald.

  So they went down to the circus grounds. They had to wait awhile because Mr. Boomschmidt was taking his Sunday afternoon nap. He was asleep in a chair on the shady side of the wagons with a red and white checked handkerchief over his face. But by and by he woke up and then the mouse, whose name was Eustace, went through his dives again in a big tub and Mr. Boomschmidt was delighted and offered him a job on the spot.

  “You’re too small to be any good in the big tent,” he said, “but we need some more side shows. We’ll bill you as ‘Eustace, the Diving Mouse.’ Ten cents admission. That ought to bring ’em, eh, Freginald? My, my, a diving mouse! Who’d ever have thought of that! Now, Freginald, you look after this boy until we get him fixed up with a place to sleep and so on. And, Louise, you go speak to your relatives about Eustace and tell ’em that he’s a good mouse and won’t bother ’em. Eh, Eustace? You won’t bother the elephants, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, sure, sure; tell ’em not to worry,” said Eustace grandly.

  So Freginald let Eustace sleep in a corner of his wagon that night, and the next day the carpenter built a little house for him. It had a bedroom upstairs and a living-room downstairs and a little staircase so Eustace could go up and down. It was painted red and Eustace’s name was lettered on the front door. And the whole thing was fastened to the front of Freginald’s wagon.

  The little house was so much like a doll house that all the younger animals wanted to play with it. They were always peeking in the windows and opening the door to see how it looked inside and of course this made Eustace mad. He would come to the window and glare at them and shout: “Go away! Leave me alone! Good grief, can’t I have any privacy?” Then if they didn’t leave he would come out and go for them, and he was so v
iolent when he was angry that they usually ran away. It was pretty funny to see him chasing a big, half-grown tiger all over the circus grounds.

  Eustace’s diving act was a great success and so he stayed a regular part of the circus. But he was pretty cranky and even Mr. Boomschmidt admitted he was a pretty hard mouse to handle. But that was because he had lived all alone by himself for so long. He couldn’t get used to having a lot of other animals around. About the only ones he could get on with were Louise and Freginald. He liked them and he was grateful to them for having got him his job, and they liked him. When he was quarrelsome they didn’t laugh and they didn’t argue—they went away and let him alone. And in a little while he’d come around and apologize for having been so cantankerous.

  Freginald began to like Louise better now, too. She had thanked him for coming to her rescue when Eustace had cornered her in the barn, and she was really trying to grow up a little and stop being such a crybaby. She was still rather stuck up because she had been taught by her mother that elephants are smarter than other animals, and, while this is true, she didn’t realize that it was enough just to be smarter and that she didn’t have to go around proving it to everybody. But she wasn’t stuck up any more with Freginald, and she was fun to do things with as long as nothing happened to make her cry, and she was very good at games. So they became good friends.

  CHAPTER 4

  Slowly the days got shorter, and the nights got longer and colder, and then the summer was gone and it was fall. And now the circus would stay for only one or two performances in a town. Then they would pack up and that night the wagons would go creaking down the road southward, up hill and down dale, through sleeping villages and past lonely farms. And the farmers would look out of their windows and see the long procession of lanterns swinging at the wagon axles and would say: “There goes old Boomschmidt, south for the winter. It’s fall at last.” And they would put an extra quilt on the bed and shiver a little as they crawled back under it.

  Freginald liked these long night rides. The countryside was so wide and mysterious under the stars, and the woods through which they passed were so deep and black and yet friendly, too. Sometimes he would get out and walk along beside Mr. Huber, the old white horse who drew his wagon, and they would wonder about the new smells that came to them on the crisp night air. Mr. Huber had been over this road many times and he knew it, as he said, like the inside of his feed-bag. He wasn’t much of a talker, but now and then he would sniff the air and say: “H’m, Jonas Penderby’s startin’ his furnace early this year”; or: “Guess old Mrs. Whiffen has been bakin’ today. I smell apple pie. ”

  Sometimes, too, Freginald would get up on the seat and ride beside the driver, Bill Wonks, and then Eustace would come up and ride beside them and Bill would tell them stories. Bill was an old-timer too, and in his day had been one of the funniest clowns Mr. Boomschmidt had ever had, though you would never guess it. For he was a sad droopy man and all of his stories ended badly. The hero always fell off a bridge or got run over by a steam roller or something equally discouraging. Even when he told one of the old stories like Cinderella he always managed to twist it so it ended badly. And if he couldn’t think of anything else when he came to the end, instead of saying: “And so they were married and lived happily ever after,” he would say: “And so they were married and lived happily for longer than you would expect.”

  Freginald asked Bill once why he was so gloomy.

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” said Bill. “When I was a young feller I used to be as happy as a Dutchman all day long. But there ain’t anybody can be a clown and stay happy. Why not, says you? Well, I’ll tell you why not. Because there ain’t anybody can tell the same jokes over twice a day, week after week, year after year, and not get pretty sour. When you tell a joke once, it’s funny. But when you tell it the two hundred and seventh time, it makes you cry. I dunno why that is, but it’s so. Why, what do you suppose is the reason for clowns painting their faces and wearin’ false noses? To be funny, says you? Naw, it’s so’s the audience can’t see how mournful they look.”

  So the circus traveled south, keeping ahead of the winter. And by and by they were in Florida. Here they began traveling around and giving performances as they had in the north, only not as often. Sometimes they stayed in camp a week or two at a time, resting and practicing up their acts. Freginald didn’t care much for Florida. It was a flat uninteresting country, and, as he said, after you have climbed one palm tree you have climbed them all. He was pretty sleepy, too. Like all bears he was used to sleeping the winter away in a snug warm cave deep under the snow. He was really staying up several months after his bedtime. And at last, about the first of February, he couldn’t keep awake any longer. And he hung a sign on his wagon which said: “Please do not disturb until April 1,” and went in and locked the door and curled up with his paws over his ears and went to sleep.

  When Freginald woke up, the first thing he noticed was that the wagon was in motion. He got up and looked out of the window. Endless rows of pine trees were marching past him. “I wonder where we are,” he said. “Goodness, I’m hungry!” He unlocked the door and jumped out of the wagon and ran up ahead.

  “Hi,” said Bill Wonks. “Look who’s here!”

  “Where are we?” said Freginald. “What day is today?”

  “It’s April 17th and we’re on our way north.”

  “I must have overslept,” said Freginald.

  “’Bout two weeks,” said Bill. “But you didn’t go to bed till February. Better go up the line; I think Mr. Boomschmidt wants to see you.”

  Freginald trotted up past the wagons, from which the animals waved and shouted to him, but he went on, only stopping at the cook wagon for a sandwich, until he reached the head of the procession. And there were Mr. Boomschmidt and Mademoiselle Rose riding along side by side on the two trick horses, Rod and Dexter. Mademoiselle Rose looked very slim and pretty in her blue shirt, tan riding-breeches, and shiny boots, with her curly blond head bare, and Mr. Boomschmidt looked positively gorgeous in his silk hat and a new red and yellow and blue plaid suit. They were a pair that you would have noticed anywhere.

  They pulled up when they saw Freginald, and Mr. Boomschmidt got down and shook hands with him. “Well, well, young bear! My word, what a sleep you’ve had, eh? But you look fine. Doesn’t he look fine, Rose? By the way, how do you like my new suit?” And he turned around slowly so that Freginald could see it from all sides.

  “I like it,” said Freginald politely. “It’s—it’s pretty.”

  “Pretty, eh?” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “Pretty loud, I guess you mean. Well, I’m partial to plaids; always have been. My mother is Scotch, you know. And what’s the harm in a bit of color?” He climbed back on his horse. “Well, that wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. Walk along beside me. Ever since you brought Eustace into the show, I’ve been wondering if there weren’t a lot more animals around the country that could do things. Of course, we’ve got clowns and trapeze artists and a snake-charmer and Mademoiselle Rose here and a lot of other people, but just the same this circus is more an animal circus than anything else. I’ve made more of my acts with animals in ’em than most circuses have.

  “But the trouble is, all our acts, with the exception of yours and Eustace’s, are what you might call standard animal acts—the trained lions and horses and seals and elephants every circus has. I want something different. There must be a lot of talent around this country that nobody knows anything about. But how am I going to find it? How—” He stopped suddenly, for they had come out of the woods, and across a hillside pasture to their left a flock of sheep were galloping in wild disorder, bleating distractedly. Behind them bounded a lion.

  “Darn that Leo!” exclaimed Mr. Boomschmidt. “He’s at it again.” He whistled shrilly, and Leo, who had just opened his mouth to roar, checked sharply, turned, and came sauntering down toward them, trying to look innocent.

  “Now, don’t be too easy on him,” said
Mr. Boomschmidt’s horse, looking around at his master.

  “You leave it to me, Rod,” said Mr. Boomsclimidt. “Well, Leo, we caught you in the act, didn’t we?”

  “Hello, chief,” said Leo. “Why, Freginald, you’re out again! Well, summer is with us indeed!”

  “Never mind Freginald,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “If you’ve got any explanation of your conduct, you’d better give it to me. I’ve warned you again and again—”

  “Excuse me, boss,” Leo interrupted. “I know you don’t like me to chase sheep and you’re right, of course. I don’t know why I always want to do it. It’s the lion in me, I suppose. And they always look so darn silly—But this time, honestly, I don’t think you ought to blame me. D’you know what they did? One of ’em roared at me. And the others all laughed.”

  “Roared at you? Ha! That’s a swell yarn, that is,” said Rod.

  “Shut up, Rod,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “I’ll tend to this.”

  The horse snorted and shrugged his shoulders so violently that Mr. Boomschmidt’s hat fell over his eyes. He straightened it and said: “Roared, eh? Well, we’ll soon find out.” And he rode up toward the sheep.

  The others watched him trot across the pasture. The old ram who was the head of the flock, and knew Mr. Boomschmidt, came to meet him. They talked for a minute, then the ram put back his head and let out a deep, full-chested roar. It sounded almost more like Leo than Leo himself. And all the sheep burst into silly bleating laughter that could be heard for miles.

  Leo was hopping up and down with rage. “There, you see?” he said. “You see? And all I did was chase them a little. Any other lion would have taken a good poke at that ram. The big stuffed shirt!”