Funny Frank (6 page)

Later, when
Tom Tabb had finished milking his cows, he called his brother, the vet.

“What time will you finish at your office, Ted?” he asked.

“About four, I hope.”

“Well, come on over then. We're going to try out Frank's new suit.”

“On the duck pond?”

“Yes. Seeing as it was your crazy idea, you'd better come to the ceremony. You're invited to the launch of Frank.”

So, later, the four Tabbs stood at the edge of the duck pond, wet-suited Frank in Jemima's arms. Around the pond Frank's brothers and sisters were standing, and Gertie and Mildred, and all the other hens of the flock, and the big cockerel. They knew something was going to
happen because gossipy Mildred had told them. On the water the ducks and their ducklings cruised.

Now Jemima, in her wellies, waded out into deeper water and carefully lowered Frank onto the surface and let go of him.

He floated.

Loudly, the ducks on the pond quacked in amusement. A chicken that floated— weird!

Around the rim the hens squawked in amazement and the big cockerel gave a loud crow of surprise, while Frank's brothers and sisters scampered up and down in excitement.

“He's swimming!” gasped Gertie to Mildred as she gazed upon her wet-suited son.

“Well, not exactly, dear,” replied Mildred. “He's floating, certainly, but he's
not going anywhere much. He'd have to have webbed feet for that.”

Frank was indeed trying to swim. He bashed on the water with his wings and he kicked about with his legs, but neither method propelled him very far. It was plain that Mildred was right, and the watching Tabbs came to the same conclusion.

“You said he'd pull himself along with his wings like an oarsman,” said Jemima to her uncle,“but he can hardly move.”

“He's too heavy with all that gear on,” said her father, and then farmer and vet said with one voice, “He needs webbed feet.”

“Right,” said Jemima's mother. “Then it's back to the drawing board!”

Chapter Six

“We can't just leave him there, floating about,” said Jemima.

“Go and get some corn and feed the rest of the flock,” said her father.

“Yes,” said her uncle. “Frank will come out of the pond quick enough then.”

And indeed, once Jemima had scattered some handfuls of corn in the orchard grass and the rest were all pecking away at it, Frank managed slowly to scull his way to the pond's edge until at last his feet touched bottom and he could, very clumsily, run to join the others.

All this time Jemima had been watching, and now she saw that all the corn had been eaten, leaving none for Frank. So she fetched another handful just for him and
kept the rest away while he ate, scratching at the little heap of corn with his long toes. Great for scratching, thought Jemima, great for running on the grass, but useless for swimming. How could they help him?

She watched as Frank pecked up the last grain of corn and then looked up at her inquiringly, head on one side. “You're a bright boy, Frank, aren't you?” she said.“You look at me as though you can understand what I'm saying. I just wish you weren't such a worry to us, wanting to swim like a duck. I suppose you're going to go straight back on the pond now?”

As an answer, Frank did. He walked right in till he was out of his depth, and then he floated out toward the ducks.

The ducklings were the first to greet him.

“Hi there, chick!” they cried. “Love your gear, man! It's cool!”

“Actually,” said Frank,“it's rather hot in the sunshine — when I'm on land, I mean.”

“East, west, water's best,” chorused the ducklings, and away they swam.

Frank worked his legs madly in an effort to follow his young friends, but his clawed feet simply could not propel him along, and fluttering his wings was little help and very tiring. If only I had feet like
a duck, he thought, so that I could thrust with my feet like they do and push the water away behind me and go sailing along instead of just floating. If only those humans would realize that that's what I need. They were clever enough to make me this wet suit. Surely they could think of some way to make me webs?

Jemima's mother
had
been thinking. How could she design a pair of artificial webbed feet? She racked her brains for some way to do this, and then by sheer chance, the answer came to her as she was cleaning the bathroom later that evening. She was wearing a pair of rubber gloves
as she filled the sink and scoured around it. They were bright yellow, these gloves, and some combination of thoughts about yellow gloves and ducks' feet and water