Freddy Goes to the North Pole (13 page)

“You have left me little time to inform you how affairs stand, and indeed it is a long story. You are eager, I take it, to rescue your friends and return them to the country of their birth. In this you may be assured of my help—for I shall return in a week—and of the help of others whose acquaintance you will soon make. But those sailors must also be persuaded to return to their pursuit of whales, and this will be no easy matter. It is a problem on which we will consult together upon my return. Farewell, crow, and convey to that excellent pig, your friend, my kindest remembrances.”

“But,” said Ferdinand hastily, as the eagle began to flap his huge wings, “just what
is
the matter? You haven't told—”

“He is indeed a most talented member of the porcine race,” went on the eagle. “Never to my knowledge have I been paid so delicate and tactful a compliment as in the poem which he wrote about me. Let me see; how did it go?

O eagle, mightiest of all living things,

Nor Death nor Destiny spreads stronger wings.

Thy claws of brass, thy beak of burnished steel,

Make malefactor pigs in terror squeal.

And so on. Very beautiful words. Request him to sing it for you.”

“Yes, I will; but you haven't—” Ferdinand began. The eagle by this time, however, was under way. “Good-bye,” he shouted, and drew away from the disappointed crow at a speed which made pursuit useless.

“Well, he was a lot of help,” grumbled Ferdinand as he swooped earthward. “However, we know where they are, and Freddy's all right. That's something.”

The animals had watched the meeting with the eagle with great interest and continued the day's march in the highest spirits when they learned that they were really within so short a distance of their friends. But a day's flight to an eagle may be a week's hard going for an animal, and it was several days before there was any indication that they were nearing the pole. Meanwhile they racked their brains to guess what the eagle had meant when he had hinted that things were not all as they should be at Santa Claus's house. Indeed, they had several quarrels about it, some holding one view, some another, until it was decided that the only sensible plan was to give up talking and speculating about it until they got there.

On the second day after meeting the eagle they climbed up through a low range of ice hills, and Ferdinand said that they were again on land, though it made no difference to them, since both earth and water were frozen, and covered with ice and snow. North from the hills stretched an empty, snowy plain, but they had not gone far over this when they came to something very strange: a gate.

It was a very neat gate, with strong posts set solidly into the snow, and made of pickets freshly painted green, so that it could be seen for a long distance. And tacked to one side of it was a piece of plank with the following legend painted on it:

KEEP OUT

This means YOU!!

By order of the Board

The animals gathered round it. “What are we to keep out
of?
” they asked each other.

“
What are we to keep out of?
”

“It looks so silly, without any fence,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “I never heard of such a thing. A gate without a fence is like a roof without any barn under it.”

“And what's the board?” asked Jack.

“The only board is the one the sign's painted on,” said Ferdinand. “I expect that's what it means.”

“Well, I don't take any orders from any old board,” said Bill. And he went back a little way and put his head down and ran at the sign and butted it flat on the snow.

So the animals went on, and in an hour or two they came to another sign.

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

S. C., Inc.

Hooker, G. M.

Again the animals were puzzled, but Uncle William said: “There are signs like that on some of the farms down our way. I think trespassers are people that shoot and fish. And prosecuting is what the farmer does to them if he catches them.”

“Well, we haven't got guns or fish-poles,” said Jack, “and if we had, there's nothing to use them on. I wonder who S. C., Inc., is.”

“Probably the farmer,” said the horse. “And Hooker, G. M., is his address. Like the letters Mrs. Bean sends to her sister, addressed: Elizabeth, N. J., you know.”

“But there isn't any state called G. M.,” said Ferdinand. “N. J. is New Jersey, but who ever heard—”

“Well, we're in Canada,” interrupted Cecil. “Perhaps that's the state of Canada we're in.”

“Oh, come on,” said the bear. “All these signs mean we're getting somewhere, at least.” And he started on.

“I don't want to be prosecuted,” said Mrs. Wiggins doubtfully. But she followed the others as they trailed on past the sign.

They were getting so near the pole now that they had no sunlight at all to travel by. They were in the region where the sun shines day and night all summer long, but where in winter it never lifts its bright head above the horizon. The continuous darkness made the bear even more sleepy, so that he had to have Cecil ride on his back and jump up and down occasionally when he began to get too drowsy. And they could only tell what time of day it was by the position of the stars.

Just after passing the second sign they noticed a glow on the northern horizon which was neither stars nor northern lights, and as they went on, the glow spread and began to twinkle with little points of light. More and more sparkling lights appeared, and in a little while they saw what it was—a long hedge of Christmas-trees, all trimmed with tinsel streamers and gold and silver stars and shiny blue and green and red balls and lighted up with hundreds and thousands of little candles. And behind the hedge they could just make out the gleaming walls and pinnacles and towers and turrets of a tremendous ice palace.

They gave a cheer and hurried forward. They pushed through the hedge and saw before them a high gateway in a wall of ice. High above them in the wall were windows in which lights twinkled. Here they hesitated for a moment, and Ferdinand looked round for the door-bell, but Uncle William said: “The gate's ajar. It must be all right to go in.” He pushed with his shoulder, and the gate swung open.

They followed him a little doubtfully into a big courtyard, tastefully planted with holly bushes, interspersed with Christmas-trees in tubs, and with a frozen fountain in the middle. They were wondering what they should do next when they heard someone singing. The voice was a light pleasing tenor; it had a familiar ring to their ears. And these were the words:

O Pole, O Pole, O glorious Pole!

To you I sing this song,

Where bedtime comes but once a year,

Since the nights are six months long.

Yes, the nights are six months long, my dears,

And the days are the same, you see,

So breakfast and supper each last a week,

And dinner sometimes three.

Then there's tea and lunch, and we sometimes munch

Occasional snacks between—

Such mountains of candies and cakes and pies

Have never before been seen.

Let the wild winds howl about the Pole,

Let the snow-flakes swirl and swoop;

We're snug and warm and safe from harm

And they're bringing in the soup.

We'll sit at the table as long as we're able,

We'll rise and stretch, and then,

Since there's nothing to do but gobble and chew,

We'll sit right down again.

We'll tuck our napkins under our chins

To keep our waistcoats neat,

And then we'll eat and eat and eat

And eat and eat and eat.

“Nobody but a greedy pig would sing a song like that,” muttered Ferdinand disgustedly.

“It's piggish, all right,” said Jack, “but I'm glad to hear that voice.” And he shouted: “Freddy!” and all the others shouted with him.

A small round startled face appeared at one of the upper windows and vanished again, and in a few moments a door was flung open and Freddy himself came dashing out. “Ferdinand!” he shouted. “You brought 'em! Good old Ferdy! And Jack! And Mrs. Wiggins! Gosh, but I'm glad to see you! And Uncle William and Charles and Henrietta, and even the mice! Golly, this is
great!”
He rushed round hugging them one after the other. “And these two children! Now where in the world did you pick them up?—But come in, come in! Mustn't stay out in the cold, and we've a lot to say to each other.”

He led them into a large hall, at the far end of which was a fireplace as big as a barn-door, in which huge logs were burning brightly. “Take off your things and sit down,” said Freddy, throwing off the handsome fur coat he had been wearing.

“My goodness, Freddy, you're fat as butter,” said Mrs. Wiggins.

Freddy had indeed grown dreadfully stout. He was almost perfectly round, and his cheeks were so fat that his eyes were almost invisible. He looked slightly displeased at the cow's remark, but then he smiled and his eyes disappeared entirely. “High living,” he explained. “We live well here on the top of the world.”

As they approached the fire, a big man with a bushy white beard and sharp black eyes, twinkling with fun and kindliness, rose from a deep chair and came towards them. He had on a fur-trimmed red coat, belted at the waist, and green trousers tucked into high black boots, and there were bells at his wrists and knees that jingled when he moved. The animals stopped self-consciously. They knew it was no one but Santa Claus himself.

“He looks enough like Mr. Bean to be his brother!” said Mrs. Wiggins.

“Ssssh!” Freddy warned her. “He understands our talk.”

But Santa Claus had heard the remark, and he smiled. “I know of your Mr. Bean,” he said. “He is a fine man; I am proud to resemble him in any way.”

Then Freddy presented his friends, and Santa Claus shook hands warmly with each of them. When he came to the bear, “And this,” the pig said, “is—er—ah—hrrumph—”

“I beg your pardon,” said the saint. “I didn't catch your name.”

The bear shifted awkwardly from one foot to another and blushed—at least he blushed inside, but it couldn't be seen through his fur. “I—er—I—Well, I haven't any name,” he said finally.

“No name?” said Santa Claus. “Well, now, how did that happen? You're the first animal I ever knew who hadn't one.”

The bear hesitated a moment; then he said: “Well, sir, I really have got a name, but I never liked it, so I never used it. It's—no, I can't say it. It's so silly.”

“H'm,” said Santa Claus thoughtfully. “If you don't like your name, there's no reason why you shouldn't change it. Isn't there any name you like?”

The bear brightened. “Really?” he asked. “I always thought you had to keep your name, whether you liked it or not. But if you say so—”

“I do,” said Santa Claus.

“Well, then, the name I choose is Peter,” said the bear.

“That's a fine name,” said Santa Claus. “I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Peter. And now, animals, come up round the fire and make yourselves comfortable. You must be cold after such a long trip. Get warm first, and then Freddy will show you your rooms and you can wash up, and then we'll have some supper.”

“There's one thing we'd like to ask you, sir,” said Ferdinand, and he repeated what the eagle had told him. “Is it true that these sailors have caused trouble?”

A worried look came into the saint's eyes. “Trouble?” he said. “Oh, I wouldn't say that. They've changed things certainly. They—”

He stopped, for at that moment a door flew open and a man came into the room—a tall thin man, with drooping black moustaches and hard, sharp black eyes. He had sea boots on, and a red sash about his waist, in which a pistol was stuck. “Ah, Mr. Claus,” he said in a harsh voice, “talkin' to the animals again, eh? I thought I heard you.” He swept a contemptuous glance over the group about the fire. “Well, I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's this here matter of the workmen in the mechanical-toy department; they don't seem to want to adopt the suggestions of Mr. Pomeroy, and we think you'd better talk to 'em. Then the New York
Times
just came in on the last mail, and there's an editorial there about you we think you should answer. We've got the answer all drafted, but we want your signature.”

Santa Claus got up wearily. “All right, all right; I'll come,” he said. Then turning to his new guests, “Freddy will entertain you until I'm at liberty,” he said. “And he can answer the question you just asked me.” He stooped suddenly and caught up Ella and swung her to his shoulder, then held out a hand to Everett. “You children come along with me,” he said.

The children giggled delightedly, but the man with the harsh voice said: “Surely, Mr. Claus, you don't intend to bring these children to a business conference? They'll only be in the way. They—”