Freddy Plays Football (12 page)

“Sure,” said Jason. “And P.M.H.S. stands for Pig Makes Huge Score. Ask me about it after the game.”

As a matter of fact nobody piled up a huge score. Centerboro kicked off. The wind was against them and the kick was short. Charlie Jackson got the ball and started back, well protected behind strong interference, and the Plutarch Mills cheering section went wild, for Charlie was their fastest back.

Then Freddy drove in on them. Running on all fours, the pig was so heavy and so close to the ground that it was almost impossible to knock him over. Instead, one by one, the Plutarch blockers went head over heels. Then he made for Charlie. The boy tried to dodge, but Freddy was too quick for him. Of course he couldn't tackle, for his forelegs were too short to hold, so he just ploughed through Charlie and cut his legs from under him. The ball was jarred out of Charlie's grip and dribbled off to one side, where Henry James fell on it.

With the ball in Centerboro's hands on the Plutarch 40-yard line, Irving Hill, the quarterback, signalled for Jason to take the ball straight through the line, between left tackle and guard. He counted on Freddy to open a hole that Jason could go through. To the spectators, it looked as if the line had exploded. The opponents' right tackle and guard flew into the air, Jason followed Irving through the opening, and saw Freddy ahead of him, knocking off the backs, who were converging to tackle him. Jason made twenty yards before he was pulled down.

During the whole of the first quarter Irving kept calling for line drives, and each time Freddy broke through, and scampering about the field on all fours, bowled over the opposing tacklers, while Jason followed with the ball. When the quarter was over the score was Centerboro 23—Plutarch Mills o, and the Bean animals and the Centerboro people who had come over to see the game had cheered so much that hardly one of them could talk above a whisper.

But Mr. Finnerty was not too well pleased. “You can't have Freddy play your whole game for you,” he said. “For one thing, you'll wear him out before the game is half over, and for another, it's bad football to rely on just one man, or one type of play. You haven't punted, you haven't thrown a single pass, you've just plugged at that one spot in the line. I'm taking Freddy out. Now go in and use some of those plays you've been working on all fall.”

After this the game was more interesting to watch. Plutarch Mills were becoming pretty demoralized, but with Freddy out they tightened up and pulled out two touchdowns in the second quarter. The final score was 30—14.

After the game the coaches and the captains got together. “We ought to protest your playing a pig against us,” said the Plutarch coach. “But we've decided not to, and I'll tell you why. We're a weaker team than Tushville, and if we don't protest it will make them look pretty small if they do. So probably they won't. And what we want to see is that gang of Tushville bruisers get licked. We're all coming over to see that game.”

“Well,” said Mr. Finnerty, “you're good sports. But such a protest couldn't be made to stick anyway. Freddy's a regular pupil of the school. Tushville can protest until they swell up and bust, but it won't do them any good.”

Chapter 11

The Plutarch Mills game caused a lot of talk, and sports writers all over the country commented on it. Some were pro-pig and some were anti-pig. Some said, what of it?—if a pig could be admitted to school, and could keep up with the children in his studies, why should he be debarred from free participation in athletics? Others said, what is the country coming to, when our school games are degenerating into brutal contests with wild animals, like the ancient Romans? But the national committee, which makes the football rules, decided to wait and see. “It will be high time to make a ruling,” the chairman said in an interview in
The Times
, “when elephants and tigers are introduced into the game. Then of course we shall have to take steps.”

During the next few days Freddy received letters from four colleges, asking if he planned to continue his education beyond high school, and hinting that scholarships might be available. But Freddy didn't pay much attention to them, for soon Mr. Bean would get his money from the bank. And the only plan he had been able to think up was such a desperate one that none of his friends thought that he ought to try it. But he did try it anyway.

He knew that Mr. Bean had already signed all the papers, promising to pay the money back, and that the money would be ready for him at the bank Friday morning. To keep Mr. Bean from getting to the bank early, Hank was to pretend to be too lame to make the trip to town; and to prevent Mr. Doty from driving his car in, the mice had gnawed holes in the two rear tires. So Freddy stayed at the Centerboro Hotel Thursday night, and very early Friday morning he went out and saw Weedly.

“Instead of going to school today,” he told his cousin, “I want you to get down to the Busy Bee, in your school clothes. Be there as soon as the store opens, and go in and walk around where everybody can see you. I want a number of people to think that I am in the store all this morning. Stay till about eleven, then beat it home and hide your clothes. Got that?”

“
I want you to get down to the Busy Bee in your school clothes.”

When Weedly had agreed, Freddy went back to the hotel and telephoned Mr. Weezer's house. When the banker came to the phone, Freddy made his voice very gruff. “This is Bean,” he said. “Got that five thousand ready?”

There was a pause, and a faint rattle, which Freddy knew was Mr. Weezer's glasses falling off, as they always did when any sum of money larger than ten dollars was mentioned. Then Mr. Weezer said: “It will be ready for you as soon as the bank opens.”

“Well,” said Freddy, “this tarnation horse has gone lame, and Brother Aaron's car has blown up, so I can't get down. I'm sending my pig, Freddy for it. You give it to him?”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Weezer, “it's rather irregular. However, as Freddy is a banker himself, I won't make any difficulty about it.”

So when Mr. Weezer opened the bank, Freddy was waiting. He got the five thousand and walked out of the bank with it pinned into his inside coat pocket. And after that nobody saw him for quite a while.

But as soon as Freddy left the bank, Mr. Weezer got worried. “I had a feeling,” he said afterwards; “I just had a feeling that something was wrong.” He thought of Freddy walking up the road, carrying all that money, and he thought of robbers hitting Freddy on the head, and of cars which ran over Freddy, and bolts of lightning which struck him—and he got in his car and drove out towards the Bean farm. He was surprised that he didn't overtake the pig on the way, and he was more surprised when Mr. Bean told him that he hadn't sent Freddy for the money, and he was just plain flabbergasted when after an hour's wait Freddy hadn't shown up.

Well, there was a lot of excitement, and during the day it spread out from the farm in all directions, until everybody in the county was talking about the pig that had robbed a bank. The Beans questioned all the animals, but most of them didn't know anything anyway, and those that did kept quiet. They phoned all Freddy's friends in Centerboro, but nobody had seen him. They called the state troopers, and the sheriff, who got together a posse to hunt for Freddy. But not a trace of him could they find.

The Beans felt pretty bad. Mrs. Bean sat at the kitchen table and cried and wiped her eyes on her apron, and Mr. Bean stamped up and down, chewing on the stem of a cold pipe. “That consarned pig!” he muttered. “Just like one of the family, he was. I'd 'a' trusted him with my last cent!”

“Well, he's got our last cent,” said Mrs. Bean, “but I can't help thinking that maybe we ought to go on trusting him. Maybe he had some good reason for taking the money.”

“Fiddlesticks, Mrs. B!—if you'll excuse my saying so,” Mr. Bean growled, and Mrs. Bean began to cry again.

“Well, well, Martha, don't take on so,” said Mr. Doty soothingly. “Told you time and again, that I ain't in any hurry for my money.”

“Good thing you ain't,” said Mr. Bean. “Where we'll get any more now to pay you with is beyond me. That consarned critter!”

Mr. Doty shook his head. “Pigs I never took to,” he said. “Dogs and horses, yes. Even elephants, yes. But pigs, no. And this Freddy. Tried to stir up trouble for me the minute I got here. Oh, he's smart all right—smart as a whip, and just as likely to snap back and hit you in the eye. Did I ever tell you about the pig ranch I had in Wyoming? It was—”

“No,” snapped Mr. Bean. “And don't begin.”

Down in the village the story of the robbery was in everybody's mouth. And as it was repeated, it grew. Freddy had held up the bank cashier at the point of a pistol; he had shot Mr. Weezer, grabbed the money, and run out and driven off at high speed in a large black limousine. Four pigs, armed to the teeth, had entered the bank, tied everybody up, blown open the vault with dynamite, and got away with hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Most of Freddy's friends in the village refused to believe these stories. They went around saying “Nonsense!” in a loud voice whenever they heard a new one. But it didn't have much effect. Mrs. Winfield Church, however, who had pretty well guessed what Freddy was up to, didn't say anything. That evening she went down to the jail.

The sheriff opened the door. “Why, good evening, ma'am,” he said, and then he blushed. “You'll excuse my appearance,” he said. “Just step into the drawing room and I'll go put on a necktie.”

“You'll do nothing of the kind,” she said, “I don't want your party manners, I want you to tell me the truth. You're a friend of Freddy's, aren't you?”

“Sure am,” said the sheriff. He followed her into the drawing room, and then stopped short. “Guess we'd better sit in the office,” he said. “The prisoners were playin' football in here yesterday when it was rainin'. Taken a great interest in the game since the school beat Plutarch Mills. I ain't had a chance yet to pick up after them, with this posse and all.”

“I don't like an orderly house myself,” said Mrs. Church. “Doesn't look lived in.” She picked up a chair that was lying on its side and sat down in it.

The sheriff pushed aside a broken lamp and set up another chair opposite her. “Well, ma'am,” he said, “you're askin' me about Freddy. You know it's my duty to arrest him if I can find him.”

“Yes. You needn't be afraid I'm going to tell you where he is. Anyway, I don't know. Not that I don't think he'd be safer in the jail than out hiding somewhere. You've got Herbert Garble on your posse, haven't you?”

The sheriff said he had to have him, he was one of the regular deputies.

“I see. But you know what he'd do if he found Freddy, don't you?”

“Well, I issued Herb a gun, and I kind of imagine he'd point that gun at Freddy and pull the trigger.”

“Well, good heavens, man,” Mrs. Church began; then she saw that he was smiling. “Oh,” she said, “I see. You mean the gun wouldn't go off.”

“Oh, yes it would, ma'am. It would make a real nice loud bang. But it wouldn't make any holes in our young friend, because I took care to load it with blanks before I gave it to Herb.”

Mrs. Church laughed. “That relieves my mind a good deal. But now, what are we going to do about Freddy? He'll be caught and Mr. Doty will get the money and the only thing Freddy will have accomplished is to get himself sentenced to jail for a year or so for robbery.”

“Ma'am,” said the sheriff, “I'd be proud and happy to have Freddy in my jail. These prisoners are a nice lot of boys, but they didn't any of 'em get beyond the third grade. I don't say they ain't bright, some of 'em, but they ain't got much conversation. And I do like good conversation. Now with Freddy here—” He broke off as some giggling that had been going on outside in the hall got louder. “Come in, boys,” he called. “Don't stand outside there snickerin'.”