Freddy Rides Again (16 page)

“Sounded like a cow to me,” said Jenks.

“Better not let the boss hear you say that,” said Thomas, and they giggled.

“Anyway,” said Thomas, “The cow isn't there. She escaped. So I'm going to open that door and see who's in there.”

So he did, and out came Mrs. Margarine and Mrs. Wiggins. The cow didn't stop for any conversation. The two men were so astonished to see again what was apparently the same cow that had just dashed out of the back door, that they let her get a good start before trying to stop her. Then they ran to get horses and a rope; but Mrs. Margarine called them back, and told them to let the cow go.

“But Mr. Margarine wanted to keep her locked up,” Thomas protested.

“Are you telling
me
what Mr. Margarine wants?” she demanded.

“No, ma'am,” he said. “Only—”

“Only you'll lose your job if you don't keep still,” she said sharply, and Thomas backed down.

But Mrs. Margarine looked after the cow, who was trotting over the fields towards home. And when Mrs. Wiggins turned, just before passing out of sight, and smiled at her, with a smile that was so broad on her big face that you could see it plainly even at that distance, Mrs. Margarine took out her handkerchief and waved it.

Like a lot of people, she wasn't so bad at all when you got to know her a little. Many snobs are quite nice people, otherwise.

Chapter 15

While Mr. Margarine and his two men were creeping up on the empty Grimby house—and Charles, sitting in his spruce tree, thought they looked pretty silly at it—Freddy and Billy were down at the pig pen. Billy had put on Freddy's best shirt, the blue one with the yellow lightning flashes on it, and his second best cowboy boots and big hat, and then Freddy had buckled a handsome gun belt around the boy's hips. Freddy's pistols, of course—the water pistol and the regular gun loaded with blanks—he couldn't give up; and there were no other guns available to put into the empty holsters.

“Never mind,” Freddy said, “We'll ride down to Centerboro and get you some guns. And a Mexican saddle, too. That little English saddle is all wrong. Oh, sure—and a rope.”

Billy was delighted with the outfit, and as they cantered down the road towards town, he talked excitedly about how they could ride together and practice shooting and roping, and the games they could play. “Only Dad,” he said thoughtfully—“he maybe won't like it. He thinks this cowboy stuff is silly.”

“I don't see that it's any sillier than chasing foxes all over the landscape,” said Freddy. “But I expect he won't mind so much—he wants you to have a good time.”

Billy said doubtfully that he guessed so.

With his shiny boots and well-cut breeches he seemed to have laid aside all the arrogance and contempt that he had shown towards the animals. Freddy began to think that his experiment was a success.

On the outskirts of town, Freddy pulled up. “You go in to the Busy Bee and buy what you need,” he said. “I'd better wait; I don't want to meet the sheriff. Meet you here in an hour.”

So Billy rode on. But as he turned into Main Street, a police car cut in ahead of him, and two state troopers jumped out, drew their pistols, and ordered him to pull up.

“Is he the guy, Wes?” one asked.

“Sure,” said Wes. “I'd know that shirt anywhere. Get down, pig. You're under arrest.”

“Who are you calling ‘pig'?” Billy demanded. “You let me alone.”

“He wants to know who we're calling ‘pig',” said Wes. “That's a good one—hey, Herb?”

“Yeah,” said the other trooper. “Come on; get down, pig. You're going to the hoosegow, the jailhouse, the gorilla-hatch.”

“But I'm
not
the one you're looking for,” Billy protested angrily. “I know him; he's a pig named Freddy.” He took off his hat. “Look at me; do I look like a pig?”

“Kind of,” said Herb.

“Not exactly,” said Wes. “But we know you; you're awful good at disguising yourself. Come on, quit stalling; ride ahead of us over to the jail.”

So Billy was taken over to the jail and locked in a cell by the sheriff, who, when the boy again protested that he was not Freddy, said: “I'll be honest with you, friend. As I remember this Freddy, he was a smart looking feller—brainy, I'd call him. You don't look much like him and that's a fact. But these troopers say you're him. I can't contradict 'em.”

Freddy waited for two hours, getting madder and madder all the time. “I ought to have known better than to have taken his word that he wouldn't try to escape,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Cy, “The great detective kind of laid an egg, didn't he?”

“Just the same,” said Freddy, “I still believe he meant to keep his word. I think—well, something must have happened in the Busy Bee—something to delay him. You go around behind that hedge and wait for me. I'm going scouting.”

Luckily he had an old raincoat of Mr. Bean's strapped to his saddle. He put this on, punched his hat into a different shape and tilted it over his eyes, and walked on boldly into town.

Nobody paid much attention to him. A lot of funny looking people came to Centerboro in the summertime; he really didn't look any queerer than some of them. In front of the Busy Bee he stopped. It would be dangerous to go in. Mr. Metacarpus, the manager, was always on the lookout for shoplifters, and Freddy did not want to become even an innocent object of suspicion. Luckily he was saved the trouble.

A voice behind him said: “The troopers picked him up right on Main Street. What a nerve—coming right into town!”

“Well, I always said that pig was gettin' too big for his breeches,” said another voice.

Freddy didn't even turn to see who was speaking. He knew at once what had happened. He turned away and walked straight over to the jail. As he entered the gate a car with two troopers in it swung out and up the street. He went on into the sheriff's office.

The sheriff was reading a newspaper. He took his glasses off quickly when Freddy came in. “Well, sir?” he said.

“I'd like to see that pig that was just arrested,” said Freddy. “I represent the F. B. I.”

“O. K.,” said the sheriff, getting up. “Got any identification?”

“My papers are in my other coat,” said Freddy. “I came over here in a hurry—”

“No matter,” said the sheriff. He laughed. “Around these parts, we say that F. B. I. means ‘Freddy Bean, Investigator.' He's a detective, you know.”

“So I've heard,” said Freddy, and he thought: “My goodness, why didn't
I
think of that!”

The sheriff unlocked Billy's cell, let Freddy in, and locked it again. “Holler when you want to get out,” he said, and went back to his office.

“I wish all I had to do was holler,” said Billy. “My father will be awful mad about this.”

“He's awful mad anyway,” said Freddy. “So we won't worry about that.”

“I mean he'll be mad at me,” said the boy. “Being put in jail.”

Freddy said: “It's no disgrace being arrested by mistake.”

“You don't know my father,” said Billy. “I almost got arrested once for riding on the wrong side of the street. Dad said if I had it would have done him a lot of harm. He's president of a bank. He said if I'd been arrested people would have made up awful stories about us, and a lot of people would have stopped doing business with his bank. He says he has a lot of enemies who would jump at the chance to pass on gossip about him.”

“Well, he's the kind of man who makes enemies,” Freddy said. “I'm president of a bank myself. I've been in jail twice for things I didn't do and it didn't hurt my business. But of course our bank depositors aren't people, they're animals. But that's neither here nor there. I can get you out of here, I think. But if I do, what will you do for me?”

“I'll let that cow out—the one that Dad captured,” Billy said. Neither of them knew that Mrs. Wiggins had already escaped.

“Fair enough,” said Freddy. “But if I get you out … well, what I was thinking of was hollering for the sheriff, and having you pretend to be me and walk out in this coat. But that would put me on a sort of a spot, because your father—”

“Yes, Dad will want to get even with you—he'd try to keep you in jail just the same, even if I told him you helped me to escape. You'll have to square yourself with him first. I think maybe if you apologized—”

“Nothing doing,” said Freddy firmly. “But let me think.” He didn't really need to think. He knew how to manage Billy's escape, but he wanted first to find out if the boy would play fair with him. And he thought he would. For Billy could easily have pretended that he could get his father to let Freddy off. Instead, he had admitted that he couldn't do anything. Freddy was beginning to like him.

“Well,” Freddy said. “I'd better call the sheriff. I've an idea that—” He broke off at the sound of approaching voices.

“Why, it's Dad!” Billy exclaimed. “Oh, golly, if he finds me here—”

“Quick! Get under the cot!” Freddy was already stripping off the raincoat. As Billy scrambled under, the sheriff and Mr. Margarine appeared at the door of the cell to see Freddy seated mournfully on the edge of the cot, staring at the floor.

“Ah,” said Mr. Margarine grimly, “You villain, you wretch. Where is my son? What have you done with him?”

“He's safe,” Freddy said. “And he's right where I can lay my hand on him any time I want to.”

“You scoundrel!” Mr. Margarine exclaimed. “You wretch! You murderous villain!”

“Look, mister,” put in the sheriff mildly. “I don't mind a man callin' names if he's good at it. But you ain't. You keep repeating, like a worn-out talking machine record. If you got a proposition to make, make it. Otherwise, quit disturbing my prisoner.”

Mr. Margarine gave him a steely glare. “This—this creature has kidnaped my son, and has threatened to send me his scalp. What do you expect me to do—embrace him?”

He probably wouldn't like it any more than the name calling,” said the sheriff. “Look, you want your boy. What'll you do if Freddy turns him loose for you?”

“I suppose you expect me to say that I'll drop my case against him—let him go,” Mr. Margarine said. “I will make no such bargain. He wouldn't dare harm a Margarine!”

Freddy looked up. “Tisn't a question of daring. But you're right—I wouldn't harm him. But I might succeed in showing him that his father was a mean, hard man, who cared more about his business reputation than about having his family like him. It wouldn't be hard to prove. Billy has always thought you were fond of him. Once he sees you care more for kicking me around than you do for his safety—well, how's he going to like it?”

Mr. Margarine didn't say anything. He was mad, but he looked pretty upset too. Then the sheriff said: “Mr. Margarine, being the sheriff, I don't want to see any trouble here for either party. Suppose Freddy produces your boy—will you drop your case and let him go?”

“How can he produce him if he isn't set free first?” Mr. Margarine asked. “And do you think I'd take his word that he'd release the boy?

“Maybe he could send for the boy—have him brought here.” The sheriff turned to Freddy. “How about it?”

“I'll produce him here,” said Freddy with a wink at the sheriff. “If Mr. Margarine will accept the bargain.”

Now Mr. Margarine really did care a lot about Billy, and so there wasn't much else he could do but agree. He was pretty sour about it.

So then Freddy said: “O. K., Billy,” and the boy crawled out from under the cot.

Well, Mr. Margarine pretty nearly had a fit, he was so mad. He didn't stamp and yell, but he stood perfectly still and he bawled out the sheriff and he bawled out Freddy and he even bawled out Billy—probably because he was so relieved to find that he was all right. The sheriff pretended to be astonished that Billy was in the cell, but naturally Mr. Margarine didn't believe him. “You'll lose your job for this—I'm telling you straight,” he said.