The Story of Freginald

by Walter R. Brooks

  He did remember one thing that Lucky had said—that Mr. Hackenmeyer was always going to beauty parlors. So the first thing he did when they came to a town was to post one or two of the smaller animals near the door of the local beauty shop, with instructions to watch carefully everybody that went in and report to him. Usually the only person they saw was Leo, who since he had got his permanent wave was so interested in different methods of dressing his mane that even when he couldn’t think of anything to have done to it he would run in to discuss new styles with the young ladies. But at last one day in Centerboro one of the hyenas came running to Freginald with news that Mr. Hackenmeyer had gone into the Golden Glow Beauty Shop on Main Street.

  “How do you know it was Mr. Hackenmeyer?” Freginald asked.

  “Oh, I remember him,” said the hyena. “I was with the show before he left it. Of course, I haven’t seen him in a number of years, but I couldn’t be mistaken. And listen, Fredg, he’s getting his hair curled. I heard him ask. Can you beat that?”

  “Let’s find Mr. Boomschmidt,” said Freginald.

  Mr. Boomschmidt was in his wagon playing checkers with one of the leopards. Neither of them liked checkers, but it was the only game both of them knew except slap-jack, and nobody is going to play slap-jack with a leopard.

  When Mr. Boomschmidt heard the news, he said: “Well, upon my soul! First Leo and then old Hack! What’s the circus business coming to?”

  “Didn’t Mr. Hackenmeyer have curly hair?” asked Freginald.

  “Why, yes. So he did! Of course! Bless me, that’s strange, isn’t it? Old Hack, spending money for something he don’t need. Not like him. Not like anybody, for that matter. Must have been somebody else, boys.”

  “It was Mr. Hackenmeyer all right,” said the hyena.

  “And he doesn’t like doughnuts any more, either,” said Freginald.

  “Doesn’t like doughnuts!” exclaimed Mr. Boomschmidt. “Oh, come, come; you’ll be telling me next that he has long green whiskers. How do you know he doesn’t like ’em?”

  “I heard him say so.”

  “Well, that isn’t Hack,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “It was somebody else you boys saw.”

  “Look, chief,” said Freginald, “maybe it was somebody else we saw. But then why does he call himself Mr. Hackenmeyer and why is he running that circus?”

  “My goodness,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, looking very serious all at once, “that is so—why does he?”

  “And if he is not the real Mr. Hackenmeyer, who is he? And where is Mr. Hackenmeyer?”

  “Gracious, I don’t know. You ask so many questions, Freginald. And, after all, what difference does it make who is running that circus as long as it is running? That’s the important thing.”

  “Except that if Mr. Hackenmeyer was really running it, maybe he would go away and not try to ruin your business.”

  “Maybe,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “Well, what do you want me to do? My goodness, can’t I have a little peace and quiet? You boys come in here and tell me a lot of things and mix me all up, and it doesn’t make any difference anyway. There isn’t anything we can do.”

  So Freginald didn’t say any more, and he and the hyena went away. But after the show he paid a call on Leo.

  The lion was inclined to agree with Mr. Boomschmidt that it didn’t make much difference who was running the Hackenmeyer show. “But,” he said “it won’t do any harm to find out as much as we can. If this man is a crook and we can prove it, we can send him to jail. Only how can we find out? None of us can get anywhere near that outfit. —Oh, wait a minute,” he said suddenly. “A couple of years ago when the show was in Centerboro, there was a pig—gosh, what was his name? He was one of those animals that went to Florida a few years ago. Lives on a farm owned by a man named Bean. Well, anyway, this pig’s a detective. And he came over here and gave us animals a lecture on how detectives work. Boy, he was a wonder! He could just look at you and tell your whole past history. Now, if we could get him to help us—”

  “Let’s go see him tonight,” said Freginald.

  Leo went to the door of his wagon and looked out. “Better wait till morning,” he said. “It’s beginning to sprinkle now, and it’ll be raining hard before we get there. It’s all of six miles.”

  “Pooh,” said Freginald, “what’s a little rain?”

  “Well, it’s enough to take the curl out of my mane. And I can’t afford to have another wave now—not the way we’re losing money.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be permanent?”

  “That’s what they call it. But I’m not taking any chances. I’d look fine, wouldn’t I, if it all came out?”

  “You’d look more like a lion,” said Freginald crossly. “Well, then, I’ll have to go alone. We can’t afford to waste time. How do I get there?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Freginald’s coat was much better than any umbrella. It would be hours before the rain could soak through his thick fur. He didn’t even feel it, except on the tip of his nose, where it was pleasantly cool and refreshing. He trudged along through the darkness thinking up what he would say to the detective. He didn’t like pigs as a rule; they were frivolous, always making fun of people, and apt to be rather touchy and sarcastic if you didn’t praise them enough. Still, he could put up with a lot of sarcasm if this pig would really help him.

  It was nearly nine o’clock when he came to the Bean farm. Leo had told him that he could recognize it by the light. And sure enough, although the house itself was dark, there were lights twinkling everywhere—in the stable and the henhouse and the pigpen and even glowing warmly through the neatly curtained windows of the cow-barn. Mr. Bean—so Leo had said—had made all these improvements with the money his animals had found on their trip to Florida. Freginald had never seen a farm like it.

  He turned in at the gate and started across toward the pigpen. As he passed the cow-barn the door flew open and a rooster came out. “Good night, ladies. Pleasant dreams to you,” he said pompously and he paused on the threshold; and “Good night, Charles,” came several deep voices from within. Then the rooster hunched his shoulders against the rain, started across toward the henhouse, and ran plump into Freginald.

  “Look out, there!” he exclaimed crossly. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Freginald. “I was just—”

  “Oh, you were just, you were just!” interrupted Charles. “People seem to think that excuses everything, if they say they were just doing something they hadn’t ought to do.”

  “I was just looking for—”

  “Ah, what did I tell you!” Charles interrupted again. “Just prowling around, just looking for something that doesn’t belong to you, I’ll wager. Well, see here, young bear, whoever you are. Do you know what I am?”

  “I know you’re getting wetter than you would if you’d stop interrupting me and answer a civil question,” said Freginald. “I’m looking for a pig who lives here—a detective. Can you tell me where to find him?”

  “Oh well, that’s different,” said Charles. “Why didn’t you say so? If you want Freddy you must be all right, as criminals don’t go around looking for detectives. But you know Freddy has retired.”

  “Oh,” said Freginald. “Well, in that case I’d better come back tomorrow.”

  “I mean retired from business,” said Charles. “Not for the night. Goodness, he doesn’t go to bed until all hours. He’s probably down there in his office now, studying and writing his poetry.”

  “Oh, does he write poetry?” said Freginald. “So do I.”

  “Do you, indeed?” said Charles condescendingly. “Well, well, very clever of you. But come along; we’ll go down and see him. Of course, he’s retired officially, but he still takes cases occasionally, if they specially interest him. We’ll talk it over.”

  Freddy the detective had his office in a special room in the pigpen which Mr. Bean had built for him. “Now, you let me handle this,” said C
harles in a whisper as he rapped with his beak on the door.

  An irregular clicking noise which had been going on inside stopped and a voice said: “Come in.” Freginald opened the door and there in an old wicker chair with a reading-light on a box beside him sat a plump and pleasant-looking pig. On another box in front of him was a broken-down typewriter.

  “Ah, engrossed in the composition of some metrical masterpiece, no doubt,” said Charles elegantly. “I trust we do not disturb the muse? The truth is, this young gentleman is a great admirer of your verses, and he has come all the way from—where did you say, by the way?” he inquired, turning to Freginald.

  “We’re at Centerboro now,” said the bear.

  “Ah, yes. And the name? I think I didn’t catch—”

  “My name is Freginald.”

  “Freginald—a charming name. Freddy, may I present Freginald? Who is also, I may add, by way of being a poet.”

  At that moment there was a tap on the door. Freddy got up to open it, and a gawky young chicken poked his head in and addressed Charles. “Papa, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Mamma says to come right home.”

  Freddy laughed and Charles looked flustered. “Dear me,” he said, “this is rather embarrassing. I was—”

  “You better come,” said the chicken.

  “Yes, yes. I—I suppose so.” He turned to Freginald. “You’ll forgive me. Domestic matters of importance, no doubt. I must—I—” without finishing the sentence he hurried out.

  “Domestic matters, eh?” said Freddy with a laugh. “He’s out after nine o’clock, that’s what the domestic matters are. Henrietta—that’s his wife—she makes him toe the mark. She won’t stand any of his nonsense.”

  “He was very kind to come over here with me,” said Freginald. “In the rain and everything.”

  “Kind!” said Freddy. “Goodness, he wouldn’t have let you get away for anything in the world. You’re somebody new to use all his language on. We don’t pay much attention to it any more. Charles is a good fellow, but he’s an awful grand talker. Well, sit down. So you write poetry too, do you? Perhaps you’d tell me what you think of this piece I’m working on now.” He bent over the typewriter and read:

  “This is the song of Frederick,

  Patriot, poet, and pig;

  In pedigree, princely, patrician;

  In appearance, both pleasing and plig.”

  “Excuse me,” said Freginald, “but what does ‘plig’ mean?”

  “I made it up,” said Freddy. “It just came to me. Sounds well, don’t you think?”

  “Oh—well, yes,” said the bear hesitantly. “I thought maybe because there wasn’t a rhyme—”

  “There are hundreds of rhymes,” said Freddy a little irritably. “Wig, jig, swig, thingumajig—er—flig, mig, quig, skig—you see? Goodness, I’m never at a loss for a rhyme.”

  “Please go on,” said Freginald. “It’s very nice.”

  “Precise he may be, and peculiar,

  Preferring potatoes to pie,

  Yet his perfect uprightness and polished politeness

  No person can ever deny.

  “In the pen where he pens all his poems

  He will often sit pensive for hours,

  Yet a panther in battle they’ve proved him,

  This pig of great personal powers.

  “Of all pigs he’s the pink of perfection,

  Of all pigs he’s the pearl beyond price;

  Though by no means the biggest,

  Of all the pigs he’s the piggest,

  And that will go everywhere twice.

  “Of course you understand,” said Freddy hurriedly as he stopped reading, “that all that isn’t necessarily true. I was just trying to write it with as many p’s as possible, and of course I couldn’t help it if so many of the words beginning with p were complimentary.”

  Freginald could think of quite a lot of uncomplimentary words beginning with p, but he just said: “Of course not,” and praised the poem highly. But then he said: “I must tell you that I really came here to consult you as a detective.” And he told Freddy how he had heard of him.

  “Mr. Boomschmidt is a fine man,” said the pig. “We all admire him very much because he treats his animals the way animals ought to be treated, and I’d be glad to do anything for any of his performers. But, you see, I’ve retired from the detective business. Had to give it up; it just left no time at all for poetry. But my assistant, Mrs. Wiggins, is still in business, and I’m sure she will be glad to help you. She is very able.”

  “I have no doubt she is,” said Freginald, “but this is a very serious matter. It’s for Mr. Boomschmidt himself that we need your help. I wish you’d just let me tell you about it.”

  “Mr. Boomschmidt himself, eh? That does make a difference. Well, let’s hear the story. Then we’ll see.”

  Freddy listened carefully as the bear told his story, putting in a question now and then. When it was finished he sat thinking for a few minutes, then nodded his head emphatically and, rummaging in a box in the corner of the pen, took out a false beard and hooked it on over his ears. “My disguise,” he said. “I do all my work in disguise. It makes it much easier if nobody knows who I am.”

  Freginald thought he didn’t look much different in the beard, which was just a dark fringe under his chin, but he only said: “Oh, are you really going to help us?”

  “Can’t leave that nice Mr. Boomschmidt in the lurch,” said Freddy. “Only you’ll have to get him to stay in Centerboro a few days instead of moving on. Can you do that?”

  “I think so. I’ll try.”

  “Good. Now run along home and leave everything to me. I promise you’ll hear from me in a day or two. I must think now. Good night.”

  Freginald would have liked to ask what Freddy thought of the case and how he was going to work, but the pig had already turned away from him and was sitting with one hoof pressed to his forehead, gazing off into space. Evidently he had begun thinking. Freginald tiptoed out.

  CHAPTER 16

  The two circuses stayed in Centerboro, each giving one performance a day. This didn’t work out so badly for Mr. Boomschmidt, for after the third day everybody in town had seen the Hackenmeyer show, and then they came to him. On the fourth day every seat in the big tent was occupied.

  Mr. Boomschmidt had tried to make parts of the performance appear more dangerous and thrilling by instructing the animals to act angry and ferocious. When he went into the cage to put the tigers through their tricks, there was so much snarling and roaring and leaping about that the audience sat on the edge of their seats, shuddering delightedly. But in the middle of the act a man in the front row shouted out: “Aw, this show’s a fake. Those animals aren’t any more dangerous than a lot of pussy cats!”

  “Oh, is that so!” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “Well, maybe you’d like to come in here and pet ’em, then.”

  “Sure, Joe; you show us! Go on in, Joe!” yelled the audience. And one of the tigers came to the front of the cage and looked hard at the man with his fierce yellow eyes and said: “I’ll take his right leg.”

  The man sat down and wouldn’t say anything more, and pretty soon he left the tent, but everybody realized now that the tigers were only pretending to be fierce, and when they showed their teeth the people just laughed.

  On the fourth day a rabbit brought Freginald a note from the detective. It was not an easy note to read, for Freddy’s typewriter lacked the letters n, i, and y, there was no period, and the space bar didn’t always work, so that the words sometimes ran together. The note was addressed to: “Fregwmald, Esq. Courtesj of Rabbwt Mo. 27.” The rabbit explained to him how to read it. “He puts w for i, m for n, and j for y. If you just remember that, it’s easy.”

  “I see,” said Freginald. “So this ‘Rabbwt’ is ‘rabbit,’ and ‘Mo. 27’ is ‘No. 27.’ And ‘courtesy’—yes, I understand. But is this your name—Rabbit No. 27? And if so, why?”

  “Well, you see,” said the rab
bit, “there are so many of us that they don’t give us names any more, just numbers. It’s easier. Now, will there be an answer, sir?”

  “You sit down a minute, No. 27, while I read it, and I’ll tell you.”

  The note was as follows:

  Dear Swr: Wm referemce tothe matter whwch we dwscussed omthe 18th wmstmt, W beg to wmform jouthat Warn mow wm a poswtwom towmpart certawm wmformatwom whwch ws of vwtal wmterest. W shall be pleased to call upom jou atjour earlwest comvemwemce—Thamkwmgjou for jour patromage W am

  Respectfullj

  Freddj

  Preswdemt, Frederwck & Wwggwms, Detectwves

  Freginald read the note through once and said: “Goodness!” Then he read it through again and said: “Dear, dear!” And then he got a paper and pencil and went at it in earnest. He had got through the first three lines and was trying to work out what a “poswtwom” was when the rabbit said: “Excuse me, sir. Freddy said if you couldn’t read it, I was to tell you that he had something to tell you and would come to see you this afternoon if it was all right.”

  “Position,” said Freginald slowly, “‘to—impart—certain information—which—’ Eh, No. 27? Oh yes, of course. It’s perfectly plain, thank you. Tell him to come, by all means. I’ll expect him.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Rabbit No. 27, and hopped away.

  Freginald went to find Leo and laid the note before him. “Well,” he said, “this looks as if we were beginning to get somewhere.”

  “Yeah?” said Leo. “Where?” He turned the note upside down and looked at it that way. “Where’d you get this?”

  “A rabbit brought it. From Freddy.”

  “A Welsh rabbit, I guess,” said Leo. “Look at all those w’s. Well, I might have known what would happen. Asking a pig for help! And he sends us a puzzle to work!”