Freddy Rides Again (17 page)

The sheriff was unlocking the cell door. He started to reply, but Billy interrupted him. “Listen, Dad,” he said; “you can't do that.”

“Oh, but I can,” said his father. “I have only to say the word in the right places—”

“If you do, I'll tell everybody I was arrested and locked up in jail,” Billy said firmly.

“What?” Mr. Margarine exclaimed. “You wouldn't do that, son. You don't know how people pick up a story like that and repeat it. You don't know what harm it would do.”

“I can't help it,” said the boy. “The sheriff hasn't done any harm. And neither has Freddy.”

His father changed the subject. “Where did you get those frightful clothes? Come home now and get into something decent.”

Billy said that he liked the clothes, and that he wanted to get a Western saddle and some boots and things to go with them—a complete cowboy outfit. His father looked distressed, but he said: “Well, if you want them I suppose you'll have to have them.” Then he paused. “I'm warning you, pig,” he said. “I'm letting you go because I have to. But keep out of my way. I'll shoot you on sight. Come, Billy.”

Billy hung back. “I'll let your cow out,” he whispered to Freddy. “And I'll meet you in an hour up where I met you this morning.” Then he went on after his father.

“I sure was surprised to see that boy in there, Freddy,” said the sheriff when they were alone.

“I bet you were,” said Freddy with a grin.

“But why did you wait for Margarine?” the sheriff asked. “You know about these window bars.”

Freddy did indeed know about the window bars. The sheriff was a kindly man, and once several years ago the prisoners had complained about the bars. They had said that iron bars made them feel shut in, made them nervous. “We have to have bars,” the sheriff had said. “Every proper jail has bars. But we'll fix 'em.” And he did. Now the frames, bars and all, swung out like a casement window. All you had to do was to push them and climb out.

“We didn't have time, after we heard his voice,” Freddy said. “Anyway, it was a good time to have a showdown.”

The sheriff shook his head. “He means that about shooting.”

“Yes,” said Freddy. “He does. Oh dear, I wish I was braver. It just makes my tail come uncurled when I think of it.”

The sheriff said consolingly: “I'm sure it would mine if I had one. Confidentially, I'm not very brave myself. What you doing to do?”

“Have a talk with Billy. He really is brave, that boy. Maybe he can think of something. I certainly can't. When I get scared I don't seem to have any thoughts at all.”

Chapter 16

Billy didn't have many thoughts either. Freddy had to walk back to the corner where he had left Cy, and then they rode up to meet the boy. Billy told them of Mrs. Wiggins' escape. He said that he had left his father stamping up and down the living room. “I've never seen him so mad at anyone,” Billy said. “He's been talking about an ancestor of ours, Sir Henry Margarine; he fought twenty duels and won all of them. Dad says if you were only of noble blood, he'd send you a challenge. But he says you being a pig, he couldn't demean himself—excuse me, Freddy, but that's what he said.”

“I'm glad he feels that way,” Freddy said. “I don't want him to demean himself by shooting bullets into me. Oh, good gracious, can't we talk about something else?”

Billy could, and did. He was delighted with his new saddle and clothes and pistols. Freddy promised to teach him how to use a rope—“if I don't get shot, that is,” he said. They rode up to Otesaraga Lake, and Freddy showed the boy Mr. Camphor's estate, where he had been caretaker one summer. They rode races and practiced stunts of various kinds, and then sat down on the shore and talked.

Billy pulled a paper out of his pocket. “Look, Freddy,” he said. “I forgot this. When we were in your house looking for you, your papers got knocked all over the floor, and I was picking them up when Dad let that snake out. I didn't have time to do anything but just stuff it in my pocket and run. Then later I read it. I guess I ought to beg your pardon for reading a private paper, but I saw it was poetry, and—well, anyway, I read it and thought it was fine. Did you really write it?”

Freddy saw that it was the missing poem—one of the series on the features, about the eyes. “Oh, that little thing,” he said, trying to look modest. “Just something I dashed off; it's of no importance, really.”

“Oh, I think it's good,” said Billy, and he read it out loud.

The Features, No. 6
.

THE EYES.

The eyes are brown or black or blue

Or grey, and of them there are two.

They are arranged beside the nose,

One to each side, which, I suppose

Was done because no other place

Was vacant in the human face.

Without eyes we would fall downstairs,

And constantly bump into chairs,

Our table manners too, I guess,

Would be a pretty awful mess.

How helpfully eyes scan the dish

And watch for bones when eating fish,

Or with a side glance, indirect, eyes

Warn us of grease spots on our neckties.

Then, eyes are used to show our feelings,

In place of yells and sobs and squealings
.

For instance, to express surprise,

You raise the lids and pop the eyes;

In showing grief, the lids are dropped,

And tears (if any) gently sopped

Up with a handkerchief—a white one,

(And preferably clean)'s the right one.

The eyes are cleverly equipped

With little lids, which can be flipped

Up in the morning, down at night,

To let in or shut out the light.

We could fill pages with our cries

Of admiration for the eyes;

They're indispensable (see above).

True, eyebrows are well spoken of;

The ears are hard to do without;

The nose is useful too, no doubt;

But eyes! Do not dispense with those!

A bandon ears; give up your nose;

But we most earnestly advise:

Hang on most firmly to your eyes
.

“My,” said Billy, “I don't see how you do it.”

“Do you really like it?” Freddy said. “Personally, I like the nose one best.”

“How does that go?” Billy asked.

So Freddy recited it. Then he recited the one about the ears, and the one about the mouth. Then he recited two poems about spring. Then he recited a long one about how nice it was to be a pig. Then he started to recite … “My gracious,” he said. “You've gone to sleep! Oh dear!” he sighed. “Just the same,” he said to himself. “He's a pretty nice boy. He stayed awake about twice as long as any of my friends ever did.”

When they were about to separate that afternoon, Billy wanted Freddy to promise to ride with him again the next day. “We don't hunt any more,” he said, “now that the farmers are all mad at my father. Oh, I don't blame them; I see now that we did upset things and interfere with them too much. But it was fun just the same. And it's no fun riding around by yourself. We could have some good games.”

“Yes, we could,” Freddy said. “But you know all the animals are pretty sore at you. Maybe I think you're all right, but they don't.”

“I didn't do a thing but laugh at them,” said the boy.

“It wasn't that. You were rude to Mrs. Bean the first day you came to the farm. And you were rude to Mr. Bean too. They won't forgive that easily.”

Billy was quiet for a minute, then he said: “I guess … well, I didn't mean to be, really. Yes, I guess I was. But would—would you ride with me if they weren't sore?”

Freddy didn't answer directly. He said: “It was your whole attitude, Billy. Towards the Beans, towards all of us. I really think that has changed, but I don't know how much. I don't know if it has changed enough so we could get along with you. What do you think about it?”

Billy looked unhappy. “I don't know either,” he said. “I don't feel the same about all of you. I didn't know what you were like. I'd like to—” He broke off and said: “Well, wait a minute. There's one thing I ought to do first. Will you come with me?”

He urged his horse forward and Freddy followed. They rode down through the pasture to the farmhouse. A few of the animals were in the barnyard, but they merely stared; none of them laughed. Billy rode up to the back porch, dismounted, went up the steps and knocked at the door. Mrs. Bean opened it.

“How-how do you do, ma'am,” said the boy. “I'm Billy Margarine.”

Mrs. Bean didn't help him any. She just nodded.

“Well,” said Billy, “I just came to say—I want to apologize for being rude to you the other day. I'm very sorry. I hope you'll forgive me.”

“Good grief!” Mrs. Bean said. “Why, young man, I didn't think—”

“Just a minute,” said a voice behind her, and Mr. Bean looked out. “H'mp!” he said shortly. “Young Margarine. Yes. Well, boy, what brings you here?”

“Now, Mr. B, just hold your horses,” said Mrs. Bean. “Billy came to apologize to me for being rude. Don't bite his head off.”

“Yes, sir,” said Billy, “and I want to apologize to you, too. I guess Freddy was the one that showed me that—well, that I wasn't very nice.”

“Ho! Freddy!” Mr. Bean croaked behind his beard. “Our little boy.” He nudged Mrs. Bean with his elbow. Then he frowned. “Well, boy, what did you want to be rude for?”

“Well, I-I guess,” Billy stammered—“I guess I didn't know any better.”

“Tscha!” said Mr. Bean. “That ain't so. Oh, now, don't get mad. It ain't so because you do know better or you wouldn't be here.”

“Oh, good land, Mr. B,” Mrs. Bean exclaimed; “don't badger the boy. He's apologized and that wipes the slate clean. There's a chocolate cake here if Mr. Bean hasn't gobbled it all. Yes, Freddy, you come in too. Cy, I'll send you out a piece; you're too big. Last time we invited a horse into the kitchen he knocked over the range. That was Hank, at Mr. Bean's birthday party last winter.”

Half an hour later Billy came out, full of chocolate cake, and climbed on his horse. “My,” he said. “They're awful nice people!”

Freddy grinned. “You mean they have awful nice cake.”

“No I don't either,” said the boy. “And you know I don't. Look, Freddy, how about tomorrow?”

Freddy swung into the saddle. “I'll ride part way with you,” he said. “Well, about tomorrow—” He didn't say anything for a short distance. A squirrel was sitting on a fencepost, and he began to giggle when he saw Billy. “Teehee!” he said in an affected voice. “O who is that gorgeous young man with our Freddy?” Then two other squirrels joined him and they all giggled and pointed.

Billy turned red, and Freddy thought he was going to get mad. But he didn't. He grinned at the squirrels. “Hi, midgetbrains,” he said. “Shake the moths out of your fur.”

The squirrels stopped giggling and stared, and Freddy laughed. “I'd like to ride with you tomorrow,” he said. “Only I have to keep out of your father's way. How can we manage it?”

Billy said he thought he could find out where his father would be, so they agreed to meet next morning up by the Big Woods, and Freddy turned back home.

But it didn't work. Twice in the next few days—once up by the lake, and once on the Centerboro road—Freddy ran into Mr. Margarine; and both times he had to ride for his life; with pellets from Mr. Margarine's shotgun whistling around his ears. After the second encounter Cy refused to go with him any more. “I'll ride around the farm with you,” he said. “Because Old Murderous won't come on the Bean property, but I'm not going to get my hide all full of shot holes.”