Freddy Plays Football (16 page)

“But he isn't your brother,” Freddy insisted.

“Oh, I'd like to shake you!” she exclaimed and her black eyes snapped angrily. Then she relented and put her arms around him and gave him a big hug. “I'm not angry at you,” she said, “—not really. But Mr. Bean is. He wouldn't come to see you. And here's another thing for you to think about. Everybody guesses that you've hidden the money somewhere in the woods, and quite a lot of them are up there hunting for it. Suppose they find it and keep it themselves?”

Freddy didn't say anything, and she turned and went out the door. But immediately she put her head back in. “If there's anything you want from the pig pen, I'll have it sent down to you.”

So Freddy said he'd like his dictionary and some pencils and paper, and she said all right and went.

Freddy learned from Jinx, who came a little later, that the state troopers were searching for the money. “They just about tore the pig pen to pieces yesterday,” he said. “Boy, don't you ever dust the place? They had to keep coming outdoors to sneeze. They even ripped up the cushion in your big chair, and gosh, how they laughed when the cracker crumbs flew! They said they guessed they'd seen untidier places, but they couldn't remember when.”

“I suppose they've got a right to search my place,” said Freddy, “but I don't see why they have to criticize my housekeeping.”

Jinx grinned. “I don't either,” he said. “People hadn't ought to criticize you for something you don't do. But there's other people looking for that money, too. Only a lot quieter about it. Herb Garble's one.”

“I know,” said Freddy. “If somebody happened to see that little package up in the tree-Well, get hold of Uncle Solomon right away, and have him bring the money down here tonight. Don't let the sheriff see him. But the money will be safer here than anywhere else. The sheriff went through my pockets when he brought me in; he won't search me again.”

The cat snickered. “First time I ever heard of a thief taking the money he stole right into the jail with him. OK, I'll see to it. Any messages you want to send, just whistle out the window. We're keeping the joint picketed.”

Mr. Finnerty and Jason Brewer called that afternoon, and they were pretty mad at Freddy. “You certainly messed up our football season by getting locked up in jail,” Jason said. “Here's the Tushville game coming Saturday, and without you we haven't a chance. I guess you've put an end to football in Centerboro all right.” But when Freddy had told him the whole story—except where the money was—Jason said: “Well, maybe you did right. But I'd call the game off if I could. We'll be snowed under.”

“I thought maybe you could play, if you got out on bail,” said Mr. Finnerty. “But I hear the judge set bail at $5000. Nobody's got that kind of money.”

Suddenly Freddy thought: “My gracious, I've got it myself! Only of course I can't put it up myself, because they'd know it was Mr. Bean's and take it away from me. Now, I wonder…” He was wondering so hard that he scarcely listened to what Jason and the coach said to him, and after a few minutes, seeing that he wasn't paying any attention to them, they got mad again and left.

As soon as they were gone he went to the window of his cell and looked out. A couple of prisoners were digging dandelions out of the lawn, and behind them a robin was just tugging at one end of an angleworm who didn't seem very anxious to come out of the ground. It was Mrs. Pomeroy. Freddy whistled, and she gave up her argument with the worm, who snapped back into the dirt like a rubber band, and flew up and in between the window bars.

“Hello, Mrs. P,” said Freddy. “How's J.J. today?”

“Well he's complaining a lot,” she said, “but the wing's doing nicely. I guess the children get on his nerves, that's why he fusses so. Do you want something?”

“See if you can find Mrs. Church, and ask her to come see me tomorrow morning. Tell her to drop in as if she was just paying a call. It's very important.”

“I'll get her,” said the robin. “If you want anything while I'm gone, Rabbits Nos. 22 and 18 are over under that bush.” And she flew off.

Late that night Uncle Solomon brought the money, and at ten next morning Mrs. Church came. “I brought you an apple pie, Freddy,” she said. “But I wouldn't advise you to eat it. It was just an excuse so the sheriff wouldn't know you'd sent for me. I never made a pie before and perhaps I didn't get enough shortening in. The filling's all right, I guess, but the crust—well, maybe you could get into it with a chisel. However,” she said, sitting down with the pie in her lap, “let's get down to business. What can I do for you?”

Late that night Uncle Solomon brought the money.

“Well, there is something,” said Freddy. “But maybe you won't want to do it, and if you don't, just say so, and—”

“Come on, come on, what is it?” said Mrs. Church with a smile.

“Why, as you may have heard, the judge has set bail for me at $5000.”

“And you want me to put it up?” she said. “Gladly, Freddy, gladly. I was wondering about that this morning, but—”

“Oh, no! Please!” Freddy interrupted. “I don't want you to put up any of your money. You might lose it. If Mr. Garble catches me and ships me off, you'd never get it back. No,” he said bringing out the package of money and handing it to her, “here's the money that belongs to Mr. Bean. If you are willing you can take that to Judge Willey and put it up as my bail. I only want to get out so I can play in the game Saturday, and not let the team down. If I do get captured, you won't lose anything. And the money will go back to Mr. Bean.”

Mrs. Church laughed so hard that the pie bounced off her lap on to the floor. “You're a caution, Freddy! You rob a bank and then when the police catch you, instead of giving up the money, you use it to bail yourself out. And yet, I don't know. Right now I'm in possession of stolen goods,” she said, holding up the package, “and if I hide it or use it to bail you out, that makes me a confederate of the robber. I don't know much about law, but I know that if anyone found it out, they could put me right in the next cell.”

“My goodness,” said Freddy, “I didn't think—here, give it back. Of course you mustn't do it.”

“On the other hand,” Mrs. Church went on, putting the money in her purse, “I'm on your side, Freddy. You can't keep the money here. And if I keep it for you, I might just as well put it up as bail. Furthermore, if we
are
caught, and Judge Willey, who is my cousin, sentences me to prison, I'll never let him hear the last of it!

“And so,” she said, getting up, “I'd better take care of it right away.”

Freddy argued, but her mind was made up. “You leave it to me,” she said. “And when the sheriff turns you loose, better come up to my house. I don't suppose you'll want to go back to the farm.”

When she had gone, Freddy picked up the pie. The fall hadn't hurt it; even the edge where it had struck the floor was undamaged. He poked at the crust, but it was as hard as wood. He looked at it a minute, then he took it out into the dining room and put it up on the plate rail, between two of the valuable plates of the sheriff's collection of rare china.

Chapter 15

As soon as Freddy was released on bail, he put the pie under one arm and his dictionary under the other and went up to Mrs. Church's.

She laughed when she saw the pie. “I don't know what you can do with it,” she said. “It might make a nice cornerstone for a house.”

“Well,” said Freddy; “one thing about it: it'll be just as good in five years, and maybe I'll be hungry when I get out of prison.”

Freddy spent that evening with his dictionary open at the list of Common English Christian Names, in the back. He was sure that Mr. Doty's real initials were the ones on his trunk, and while the B might stand for any one of a thousand last names, the chances were that the C stood for one of the commoner names beginning with that letter. So he made a list of the commoner ones. He discarded the one which the dictionary list started off with—Cadwallader, however, and used his own judgment about Constantine and Cuthbert and Caesar. “If they're common Christian names,” he thought, “that dictionary man, Mr. Webster,—well, I wonder what he'd call an unusual name?” He got a list of eight names, and decided to try those.

The next afternoon he reported for football practice. Everybody was glad, for now there was a good chance of beating Tushville Saturday, and as word that he was back on the team got around, many people closed their offices and stores early and came up to watch. Practice was just about over when Mr. Gridley and Mr. Garble appeared.

They walked right out on the field, and Mr. Garble shouted: “Stop! I protest against allowing this pig to be a member of the school team. I represent the School Board, and I have called upon Mr. Gridley to order the coach to dismiss him. He is well known as a hardened criminal, a bank robber, who should not be allowed to consort with our innocent children. Mr. Gridley, do your duty!”

There was a good deal of angry muttering from the townspeople who had been watching from the sidelines, and one of the boys on the team said: “Ah, why don't you mind your own business!”

Mr. Gridley looked rather unhappy. “I am afraid, Mr. Finnerty,” he said, “that I have no choice. Since the School Board orders it—”

A precise, sarcastic little laugh made him stop and look up. Uncle Solomon was perched on the crossbar of the goalposts.

“One moment,” said the owl. “I am not a member of your distinguished Board, but as a close friend and admirer of the accused, may I be permitted to ask a question?”

Although small, the owl spoke with such dignity that Mr. Gridley said: “Why, of course,” but Mr. Garble said angrily: “Oh, yeah? Well, I'm not going to answer questions by any little snake-eating squawk-owl!''

“Dear me,” said Uncle Solomon with a titter, “I fail to see what remarks on my personal habits have to do with what we were discussing. Would you care to explain the connection, Mr. Garble?”

“Yah!” said Mr. Garble disgustedly.

“Thank you,” said Uncle Solomon. “And, Mr. Gridley, since that seems to be the sum total of Mr. Garble's argument, I suggest we simply drop the whole thing.”

Mr. Garble had turned his back on the owl. “Mr. Gridley, do your duty,” he ordered.

But again the maddening titter interrupted him. “May I point out,” said the owl, “that I have not yet asked my question?”

Mr. Garble was beside himself with rage—and you can't blame him much, for there is no sound so insulting as the laugh of a screech owl. He pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Uncle Solomon. “For two cents—” he began.

“I haven't the sum on me at the moment,” said the owl calmly. “But knowing your light-fingered ways with money which does not belong to you, I am not surprised at your trying to chisel even two cents out of me. I permit myself this personal comment,” he remarked to Mr. Gridley, “only because Mr. Garble has seen fit to make similar comments about me.” Then he turned back to Mr. Garble. “However, if one of the boys will advance me the two cents, I will gladly give it to you. Particularly as I do not believe that you could hit a barn, even if you were inside it. Well, dear me,” he said, as Mr. Garble hesitated; “go ahead!”

And Mr. Garble, stung to a fury of rage, pulled the trigger.

Mr. Garble pulled the trigger.