Freddy Plays Football

by Walter R. Brooks

  Pretty soon he put it on to see what it was like.

  Freddy Plays Football

  Walter R. Brooks

  Illustrated by Kurt Wiese

  The Overlook Press

  New York

  Chapter 1

  Jinx, the black cat, was curled up in the exact center of the clean white counterpane that Mrs. Bean had just put on the spare room bed.

  Jinx had no business there. He had his own bed, a soft red cushion down behind the stove that Mrs. Bean had made for him. Mrs. Bean was fond of Jinx, but she wasn’t fond of having him on the beds, and she particularly didn’t like him on the spare room bed. He knew that if she caught him on her own bed she would pick him up and throw him off. But if she caught him on the spare room bed she would chase him with a broom.

  Now Jinx’s red cushion was much more comfortable than the bed, but there wasn’t anything very exciting about taking a nap on it. In the spare room, on the other hand, you never knew when Mrs. Bean might appear in the doorway and a sweep of the broom would send you head over heels on to the floor. Like most cats, Jinx enjoyed a spice of danger, even when he was asleep.

  He wasn’t really asleep of course; he was just taking a cat nap. His eyes would close for a few seconds, then they would open and he would look at his reflection in the mirror over the bureau. He looked very black against the white counterpane. “My goodness,” he would say, “I certainly am a darned handsome cat!” Then he would close his eyes and purr for a minute. But pretty soon his eyes would pop open again. “Yes, sir,” he would say, “I certainly am distinguished looking. Elegant! That’s the word—elegant!” And he would purr louder than ever.

  He purred so loud that when the four mice, Eek and Quik and Eeny and Cousin Augustus, came into the room and climbed up on the windowsill behind him, he didn’t hear them at all. They sat in a row and watched him admiring himself, and they poked one another and snickered until at last Eeny got to giggling so hard that he fell right off the windowsill. He only made a very small thump when he hit the carpet. But Jinx heard it, and in one bound he was off the bed and under the bureau.

  In one bound he was off the bed.

  The mice were delighted with this, because it isn’t often that a mouse scares a cat—it’s usually the other way round. They giggled harder than ever, and Eeny climbed up on the footboard of the bed and jumped down on the counterpane. “Come on, fellows,” he said, “let’s see how we look.” So the others came over and they sat in a row with their paws on each other’s shoulders and looked in the mirror.

  “Boy oh boy!” said Eek. “What pretty little fellows we are, to be sure!”

  “Very intellectual looking,” said Quik. “And such sweet expressions!”

  “It isn’t just good looks,” said Eeny. “We’ve got charm! That’s the word—charm!” And they held on to one another and rocked back and forth with laughter.

  “Yeah,” said Cousin Augustus, “what’s an old cat got that we haven’t got, hey?”

  “He’s got claws,” said Jinx, coming out from under the bureau. “Don’t you know this spare room is out of bounds to animals?”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Eek. “What are you doing here then?”

  “I’ll show you what I’m doing here,” said the cat, and made a leap for the bed.

  The mice scattered, hopped to the floor, and then ran up the window curtains and sat on the curtain rod. They weren’t really scared, for Jinx was not only an old and trusted friend, but a good-natured cat, who could take a joke on himself without getting mad. Still, he was apt to play pretty rough and if he caught them he would tickle them until they squeaked for help.

  “Come down off there!” he commanded. “Do you want me to come up after you?”

  “Sure, come on up,” said Eeny. He knew that Jinx couldn’t climb the curtains without tearing them, and if Mrs. Bean found them torn the cat would not only get the old broom treatment, he would probably be banished from the house.

  Jinx shrugged his shoulders. “Pooh,” he said, “I wouldn’t demean myself!” He hopped up on the bed and lay down again. “I can wait. You’ll have to come down some time.”

  The mice giggled some more, and Quik shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. “We like it here. Matter of fact, we think of settling here. It’s a fine location—lots of fresh air, beautiful view—except for cats, of course—” He broke off. “Psst! Beat it, cat,” he squeaked. “Mrs. Bean’s coming up the back stairs!”

  Jinx had heard the footsteps too. There was just a flicker of black as he disappeared through the doorway. The mice stayed where they were, for they were so close to the ceiling that they were sure of not being seen. People coming into a room seldom look above the level of their eyes.

  Mrs. Bean was a plump little woman with black hair and red cheeks and snapping black eyes. She came in and looked at the bed, and she frowned. You and I wouldn’t have seen anything wrong with it. The counterpane would have looked to us as smooth and white as a fresh sheet of paper. But Mrs. Bean was, I guess, one of the best housekeepers that ever lived, and she spotted right away the faint indentation where Jinx had lain, and the two or three little wrinkles his feet had made when he jumped off and on the bed. She put her hand on the indentation and felt of it. “Warm!” she said. “Drat that cat!” She smoothed out the counterpane, and then after looking under the bureau to see if Jinx was hiding there, she went back downstairs.

  Now when she was coming up the back stairs, Jinx was sneaking down the front ones, and when she got back to the kitchen, there he was, snoozing peacefully on his cushion back of the stove. She looked at him hard, but he kept his eyes shut and even threw in a little snore for good measure, so that she couldn’t help smiling. “Jinx, you wretch,” she said, “I know you’re not asleep.”

  Jinx gave a start and his eyes snapped open. “What—what?” he said. “Oh, it’s you, ma’am. You startled me.”

  “I’d have startled you with a good box on the ear if I’d caught you on that spare room bed.”

  “The spare room bed?” he inquired innocently. “Good gracious, has someone been up there?”

  “I know you won’t lie to me if I ask if it was you,” she said, “but you’ve put on such a good show that I won’t ask. I’ll just suggest that you’d better go without your supper tonight.”

  “Oh, gosh, Mrs. Bean,” he protested, “I need my supper. I’m a growing cat—”

  “You’re growing much too smart for your own good,” she said. “Now let’s not have any argument. You know perfectly well you’re not allowed in that room. My brother is coming tomorrow to pay us a visit, and what do you think he’d say about my housekeeping if he saw his bed all mussed up?”

  “He’d better not say anything in front of me!” Jinx exclaimed.

  “That’s very good of you,” said Mrs. Bean drily. “But, land sakes, I’m not going to stand here arguing all afternoon with a cat!” She went and opened the back door. “You go on out for a while. Go on. Scat!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Jinx meekly, and went.

  He went straight across the barnyard, past the stable, where he could hear Hank, the old white horse, munching hay, and past the cow barn, where he could hear the three cows munching their cuds. Everybody seemed to be munching something. Even Charles, the rooster, and his wife, Henrietta, were walking around in front of the henhouse, picking up kernels of corn. “If I’m going to get any supper tonight,” he thought, “I’ve got to get busy.” So he walked up to the pig pen and rapped on the door.

  Freddy, the pig, had learned to read and write when he was quite young. Later, he had taught most of the other animals on the Bean farm. But it wasn’t much good to them at first, because there was nothing for them to read. So Freddy
started a newspaper for them. It was called the Bean Home News, and it is today the only important animal newspaper in New York State. Jinx knew that Freddy was getting the next issue of the paper ready to send to the printer, so when a voice called impatiently for him to come in, he pushed open the door.

  “Hi, pig!” he said breezily. “Got a spot of hot news for the old scandal sheet!”

  Freddy was sitting in his old armchair before the typewriter. He swung round. “The last bit of hot news you brought in here, Jinx,” he said, “was about as hot as a last week’s griddle cake. About the cow that flew a plane across the continent. Not only did it happen three years ago, but a lot of your story wasn’t true. She didn’t fly the plane—she was just a passenger.”

  “So what?” said the cat. “It was a good story, wasn’t it? Caused a lot of talk, and that’s what makes a paper interesting. Shucks, if a story’s good, it’s good, no matter how old it is. Look at the one about Captain John Smith and Pocahontas. That’s hundreds of years old, and it’s still a good story.”

  “Sure, but it’s not news. Look, Jinx; a news story is a new story, not an old one. Suppose I printed the story about Captain John Smith. With these headlines: ‘Capt. Smith to Wed. Pocahontas’ Plea Wins Irate Father’s Pardon For Gallant Soldier. Powhatan Sanctions Immediate Nuptials.’ Why everybody’d laugh themselves sick.”

  “OK, OK,” said Jinx. “Never mind the fancy talk. Anyhow, you’ve got it all wrong. Let me write your headlines, and I bet every animal on the farm would read the story. Something like this: ‘Love Halts Smith Execution. Princess Perils Life to Save Lover. Today, yelling “I love him,” Pocahontas, famous Indian beauty, grabbed her father’s uplifted war club as he was about to sock that well known—’”

  “Oh, skip it, Jinx,” Freddy interrupted. “I’m busy. What’s your hot news?”

  “It’s something pretty special,” said Jinx. “If you’ll invite me to supper, I’ll be glad to give it to you.”

  “What do you want to have supper with me for?” Freddy asked.

  “Well, Mrs. Bean is sort of off me today. She has some idea I’ve been up on the spare room bed, and—well, she isn’t going to give me any.”

  “Ha!” said Freddy. “That’s a good news story. ‘Jinx Ejected From Spare Room. No Supper, Mrs. Bean Rules.’” He turned to make a note with a pencil, but Jinx said: “Shucks, Freddy, that isn’t news. I’ve been thrown out of that room more times than you could count. Look, do you want my news item?”

  “Sure. But you know I only eat a light supper.”

  “The lighter the better, as long as there’s plenty of it.” The cat grinned. “OK, the news is that Mrs. Bean’s brother is coming tomorrow for a visit.”

  “Didn’t know she had a brother,” Freddy said, and reached again for his pencil. “All right, what’s the brother’s name, and where does he live?”

  “How should I know?” said the cat. “What’s it matter?”

  “Look,” said Freddy patiently. “A newspaper story is no good unless it has all the facts in it. Suppose a store is robbed. You can’t just say: A store on Main Street was robbed last night and some things stolen. You have to give the name of the store and the name and address of the owner, and a list of what was stolen, and the names and addresses of the robbers—”

  “Suppose they didn’t leave them. Suppose they just took the things home and didn’t have them sent? Oh well, maybe I can get some more facts. What time do we eat?”

  “Six sharp. And remember—no facts, no food.”

  Two minutes later Jinx was mewing hopefully at the back door of the farmhouse. Presently the door opened. “Oh well, come in then,” said Mrs. Bean.

  “Look, Mrs. Bean,” said the cat; “you said your brother was coming tomorrow, and I—that is, some of us thought it would be sort of nice to have a reception committee, and maybe a little speech of welcome and a bouquet of flowers or something.”

  “Why, Jinx,” said Mrs. Bean, “that’s a very nice thought. I think it would be lovely.”

  “Well, ma’am, the trouble is, we don’t know his name or where he comes from or anything, and it’s kind of hard to compose a speech unless we have—well, some facts—”

  “Good land!” said Mrs. Bean. “I couldn’t compose a speech if I had a bushel basket full of facts. Much less deliver it.” She went over and sat down in her rocking chair.

  “Well, now, it’s quite a story, Jinx,” she said. “Here, hop up in my lap and I’ll tell you about it.

  “You see, I had an older brother, Aaron. Aaron Doty. When I was about eleven, Aaron ran away and went out west somewhere, and we lost track of him. From that day to this we’ve never heard a word from him, although when my father died, we tried to find him, because my father left me some money, and half of it would have belonged to Aaron. Then I got married and moved out here, and to tell you the truth I haven’t thought much about him since.

  “Well, sir, one day I was talking with that Mr. Boomschmidt who comes through here with his circus every year, and I told him the story and said if he ever met an Aaron Doty, to tell him to write to me. Mr. Boomschmidt travels all over the country, and I thought he just might happen to run into Aaron. And sure enough he did! And now Aaron’s coming to stay with us for a while.”

  So Jinx thanked her and went back and told Freddy.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” said the pig. “I’ll just jot that down. Now this reception committee—we’ll have to go through with it, I’m afraid; but it’s a good idea anyway. We’ll let Charles handle it—he’ll take care of the whole thing if we let him make a speech. Go over and tell him while I write this up for the paper. Then we’ll have supper.”

  Chapter 2

  Just before sunrise the next morning Charles, the rooster, came sleepily out of the henhouse door. He flew up on a fencepost and crowed. For a minute nothing happened. Then something red and white appeared in the Beans’ bedroom window, and Charles knew that it was Mr. Bean’s nightcap, and that the farmer was looking out to see what the weather was. And at the same time the bright gold edge of the sun appeared above the eastern horizon.

  Charles crowed some more, rather impatiently. He had got the Beans up, and the cows, too—they were coming out of the barn door. But even now the sun was barely peeking over the edge of the world, like a lazy boy who peeks out from the bedclothes and has to be called a dozen times before he will get up. This annoyed Charles. The sun ought to jump right up into the sky at the first crow. A good many roosters feel the same way.

  Pretty soon the little revolving door in the henhouse began to go round and round as, one by one, Charles’ seventeen daughters came running out. They were going up the lane to pick wildflowers for the bouquet. Charles glared crossly at the sun. “I suppose I’d better stay here a while,” he thought. “Just in case the lazy thing tries to crawl back into bed again. Ha, there’s Freddy. He’s another lazy one.”

  The pig came down to the fence, rubbing his eyes. “Morning, Charles. Got your speech of welcome ready, I suppose?”

  “Oh, I haven’t prepared anything,” Charles said. “I prefer to leave what I say to the inspiration of the moment. Sounds more sincere, I always think. Excuse me a second.” He crowed again, then said: “It’ll be the usual thing. Light and graceful, rather flowery, with a humorous anecdote or two.”

  “Well, make it short,” said Freddy.

  “I think I’m quite capable of handling a few informal remarks without any instructions from you,” Charles said huffily.

  “Sure you are. Just see that it is a few. I don’t want this Mr. Doty to fall flat on his face with exhaustion before you finish.”

  Charles hopped down from the post and strutted off angrily, and Freddy walked down to the old elm that stood beside the house and rapped on the trunk. “Hi, Freddy,” said a small sleepy voice from high up among the branches.

  “Morning, J.J.,” said Freddy. “I’ve got everything ready. Drop around when you’ve had breakfast.”

/>   “I’m ready now,” said the voice. “I’ll have breakfast at Miss McMinnickle’s on the way to town. She’s been digging in her garden and I expect she’s turned up some nice fat worms.”

  Mr. J. J. Pomeroy flew down and lit on a branch above Freddy’s head. He was a plump and handsome robin, and the little spectacles which he wore for his nearsightedness glittered in the early sun. Every week, when Freddy had typed out all the stuff for the next issue of the Bean Home News, Mr. Pomeroy flew it down to the printer in Centerboro.

  Freddy shuddered at the thought of angleworms for breakfast, and he shuddered again when Mr. Pomeroy turned and called up to his wife that he would bring back a few for the children.

  “Those little green ones, dear,” Mr. Pomeroy called back. “The children are so fond of them.”

  Freddy hurried back to the pig pen and tied up the roll of typewritten sheets with string, and Mr. Pomeroy picked it up by the loop in the string and flew off to Centerboro. And the pig went back into his study and sat down in his big chair and put his feet up on the typewriter and took a little nap.

  Along about half past ten all the animals on the Bean farm suddenly stopped whatever they were doing and lifted their heads and listened. First they thought Mrs. Bean had fallen down the back stairs with her arms full of tin pans. But the sound kept on growing louder and louder, with sort of a sputtering under the tin pan clatter, and then down the road came a little rusty old car, and as everyone rushed out into the barnyard, it roared in the gate, gave a couple of extra loud bangs, and stopped with a jerk by the back door. And with a final bang a little man was blown right out of it and up the steps, and knocked on the door.

  He was a small wiry man in rather shabby clothes, and as he knocked, he shouted: “Hey, Martha! Martha Doty—I mean Bean! It’s me—it’s your long-lost brother Aaron.” And when Mrs. Bean came to the door he seized her and hugged her, and then held her off with his hands on her shoulders. “Well, well, well!” he exclaimed. “The same old Martha! Yessir, old Martha! well, well, well!”