Freddy the Politician (11 page)

“You tell your uncle to come out,” said Grover. “I'm not going to fight him at midnight. I can't see in the dark as he can, and he knows it.”

“You won't need to,” said Vera. “Uncle never misses.”

“If you won't tell him to come out,” said Grover angrily, “I'm coming in and pull him out.” And he hopped nearer to the entrance.

“Are you indeed?” said Vera, and she reached out one large capable claw and grabbed him by the neck and shook him. The feathers flew, and Grover struggled and pecked at her, and John Quincy and X went for her, too. But she was just inside the hole and they couldn't reach her.

“Hey, go easy, Vera,” called Jinx, and the other animals began to get worried, for Grover's head was beginning to waggle.

And then old Whibley said: “That'll do, Vera.”

Every head in the crowd went up, and there was a murmur of surprise. And old Whibley said: “You've handled this badly, niece. Don't want to kill the creature. Thought I could save myself bother by keeping out of sight. Pshaw!”

He flew down next to Grover, who was saying: “Awk!” and wriggling his neck as if he had a tight collar on. “You see, woodpecker, what chance you'd have in a duel with Vera. Not as strong as me, either. Often given her a good sound spanking when she misbehaved. Eh, niece?”

“That's right, Uncle,” said Vera.

“Well. So you want a duel, eh? Suppose you'd be satisfied if I made an apology?”

Grover, who still couldn't speak, nodded.

“H'm,” said old Whibley. “What'd I say? Said you were a stuffed shirt. Said you talked a lot of balderdash. True, too. Won't apologize for telling the truth. See here, Grover, you're smart; no coward, either. Why not stop being a stuffed shirt? Stop talking balderdash. Then I could say: Grover
isn't
a stuffed shirt. Grover
doesn't
talk balderdash. Eh? That's the way to settle this. No insult; no duel. Fury! I'm making a speech myself!”

“I
demand
satisfaction,” croaked Grover. “I will not be made fun of.”

“You'll be made fun of if you're funny,” said the owl. “By others, if not by me. Can't fight every animal on the farm. Well, can't talk all day. All right. I apologize.”

“You apologize?” said Grover.

“Certainly. You
are
a stuffed shirt, and you
do
talk balderdash, but I apologize for saying so.”

“But that's no apology,” said John Quincy.

“What do you mean, it's no apology?” said the owl. “Either I apologize or I don't apologize. If I do, it's an apology, isn't it?”

“Yes, but—”

“Let it go, John Quincy,” said Grover. “We're not getting anywhere. He doesn't intend to fight. Very well, Whibley, I accept your apology. But kindly keep away from my meetings in the future.”

“Certainly shall,” said the owl. “Can't stand balderdash.”

Grover, who had started to leave, turned sharply around, but John Quincy said something to him, and he shrugged his wings and the three woodpeckers flew off. Old Whibley closed his eyes.

The crowd, much disappointed that there had been no fight, gradually melted away.

“This business will lose Grover some votes,” said Freddy to John. “Old Whibley made sort of a monkey of him.”

“I don't know,” said the fox doubtfully. “Grover wasn't afraid. It's a good thing to have a president who isn't afraid. How's the election going to go?”

“It'll be a walk-over for Wiggins,” said Freddy enthusiastically. “Grover hasn't a chance, not even if the chickens all go over to him. And I don't think they will. Charles is mad at us, but Henrietta controls the chicken vote, and she'll be loyal to the old crowd. And if Charles doesn't vote the way she tells him to, there'll be an empty perch in the warm corner of the chicken-coop after election. I heard her tell him that, so I know.”

“That's fine,” said John. “I thought you looked worried, and I wondered.”

“I'm worried about the bank,” said Freddy. “I'd like your advice.” And he told the fox about the board meeting. “If I could get in to that meeting,” he said, “I could keep them from putting me out. Officers have to be elected by a unanimous vote—in fact, everything the bank does has to be agreed to by all the officers. Listen, John; do you suppose you could give me digging lessons? Maybe I could dig down to the board room.”

“You couldn't dig into it in a week even if you had steel claws,” said the fox. “You'd need a tunnel nearly three feet across. You're—excuse me, Freddy—you're too fat.”

“I know,” said Freddy. “My whole family are that way. Fleshy. My father was enormous. A fine figure of a pig, you understand, but—enormous. We like to eat, of course. Pigs do. I expect that's why they call us pigs.”

“I remember your father,” said John. “When I was little he used to come down to the woods for acorns. We liked him so much. Always a laugh and a joke for everybody. You know, Freddy, it was always my ambition to grow up to be as smooth and sleek and—well, rounded, as he was.”

“That's funny,” said Freddy. “I've always wanted to be thin. Always. Sort of slender and willowy. I never saw a pig like that, but I see no reason why one shouldn't be. You know, the first thing I ever wrote had a hero like that. A slim pig. Dear me, what was the title of that?—The Trail of the Lonesome Pig?—no, that was another one. Come down to my study. I'd like to read it to you.”

So Freddy forgot all about the board meeting, and he and John spent a happy afternoon reading out loud in the pigpen. And it wasn't until supper time, when John had at last gone home, that Freddy remembered.

Probably he wouldn't have remembered then if John Quincy hadn't come over to tell him the result of the meeting.

“We voted you out and X in as secretary,” said the woodpecker. “And then we voted you in again as sixteenth vice-president. So you see you still have your office, but none of the work to do.”

“Sixteenth vice-president!” said Freddy. “But there aren't
any
vice-presidents. How can I be sixteenth?”

“Banks always have a lot of vice-presidents,” John Quincy explained. “The more they have, the more important the bank is. We just made you sixteenth so it would sound like a more important bank.”

“But what do I have to do?” asked the bewildered pig.

“You don't have to do anything. That's just the beauty of it. The vice-presidents don't vote, even, so you don't have to worry about that. The only thing they have to do is if the president is absent, one of them takes his place. It's really an honorary position. Very highly honorary, Father says.”

“Too honorary for me,” said Freddy. And then he remembered, and instead of saying what he had been going to say, he began to laugh. And John Quincy got mad and left.

But he left without finding out what Freddy really thought about the result of the meeting, and that was just what Freddy wanted him to do. For Freddy didn't have any thoughts about it at all.

X

Wasps as a rule keep to themselves and have little to do socially with their neighbors. But there was one wasp named Jacob who had struck up quite a friendship with Jinx. The cat had been treed by a dog and Jacob had come along and stung the dog on the nose and driven him away. He had done it more as a joke than anything else—wasps have a queer sense of humor—but Jinx had been grateful, and they had had several long talks together. They had found that they both liked to play the same kind of jokes on people, and they could often be seen in a corner of the barnyard snickering over some new mischief they were cooking up.

One day about a week before the election Jacob saw the tip of the cat's tail sticking out of a tangle of bushes down by the lower meadow. He circled around a couple of times, playing with the idea of dropping down and just stinging the tip of the tail gently. But he was really quite considerate for a wasp; he almost never stung his friends, even in fun. So he flew down and crawled into the bushes near Jinx's nose.

“Hello,” said the cat. “If you want to see something funny, look out there.”

Out in the meadow Freddy was crouching down in the grass, and as Jacob looked, the pig gave a sort of clumsy spring, as if he were pouncing on something. Then he stood up, looked around sheepishly to see if he had been observed, and crouched down again.

“Freddy asked me the other day,” said Jinx, “how I got so thin last summer, and I told him I thought it was because I ate so many grasshoppers. That's what Mrs. Bean said, anyway. She advised me not to eat any more of them. So Freddy's gone on a grasshopper diet to see if he can reduce. But of course he can't catch the darn things.”

“He'll reduce all right,” said Jacob. “Why, he couldn't catch two a day.”

The two friends watched for a while, giggling at the pig's ridiculous capers; then Jacob said: “I'm going out and have some fun. Pretend I'm a grasshopper.”

“Don't sting him,” said Jinx anxiously. “Freddy's a poet, and stings hurt him worse than they do other animals.”

“Leave it to me,” said Jacob. He went out and swung on a blade of grass a few feet in front of Freddy's nose. Pretty soon the pig saw him. He crouched and crawled closer, but just as he was about to spring, Jacob made a pretty good imitation of a grasshopper jump and landed on Freddy's ear. Freddy made a pass at him, and Jacob jumped to his tail. Freddy whirled, but Jacob was on his ear again. And so it went on, while Jinx rolled on the ground with laughter. And at last Freddy, panting and exhausted, stretched out on the ground. Jacob flew up close to him and said: “Hey, Freddy, don't you want to play any more?”

“Eh?” Freddy gasped. “It's Jacob, isn't it? Darn you, Jacob, is that any way to treat a friend?”

“Why, sure,” said the wasp. “You want to reduce, don't you? I was just giving you a little work-out. I bet you've lost five pounds.”

“Did you ever think of taking up fancy dancing, Freddy?” asked Jinx, strolling out from the bushes. “I had no idea you were so graceful.”

“Oh, it's all very funny to you,” said Freddy bitterly. “But you've always been slim and distinguished-looking. You don't know what it is to be fat. I
can
dance well, and I can swim, too, but everybody laughs when I do it. I want to look romantic—like Jacob, here—sort of dark and dangerous-looking. And I
am
romantic—I'm just full of romance inside.”

“There must be a lot of it, all right,” said Jinx. “No, but really, Freddy, I think you're all wrong about this fat business. Pigs
are
fat. You'd look funny if you weren't. And as far as being romantic goes, my goodness, look at all the things you've done! You've traveled, and you've been a detective, and you've written fine poetry, and what could be more romantic than some of the adventures you've had? I'm sure if anybody said: ‘Who is the most romantic animal on this farm?' everybody'd say you were. Wouldn't they, Jacob?”

“Sure would,” said Jacob, who was polishing his sting on a bit of moss. “Of course, there's this about fat: some people just sink down into it, and others rise above it. But I'd say you rise above it—all the things you've done. You're a pretty important pig. And you've done it without making anybody mad at you. Why, you've even been fair to us wasps. And most people don't like us much. ‘Get out the fly-swatter!'—that's what they say when they see one of us. I'd rather be fat and have people smile when they see me than be romantic-looking and have them try to squash me.”

“Well, maybe you're right,” said Freddy, brightening a little. “But I've been worried lately. This bank business, and then the election. I don't see how Mrs. Wiggins can lose, and yet Grover seems awfully sure of himself. And there's a lot going on I don't understand.”