Freddy Plays Football (17 page)

Uncle Solomon had learned from the sheriff that the gun was loaded only with blanks. But before Mr. Garble could shoot again, a heavy hand fell on the back of his neck, and the sheriff said: “I've spoken to you about that pistol before. If you let that thing off just once more, Herb, I'll pull your ears back and tie 'em in a bow knot behind your head. Now go ahead, owl; what's your question?”

“Evidently, Mr. Garble,” said Uncle Solomon, “you are no more skillful with a gun than you are with an argument. However—have you any proof of your accusation that this pig is a hardened criminal?”

“Everybody knows it,” said Mr. Garble sulkily.

“
I
do not know it. However, if such an accusation is a reason for his being dismissed from the team, I hereby accuse you of attempted murder, and I demand that you be thrown off the School Board.”

Mr. Garble gritted his teeth, but with the sheriff's hand still on his neck, all he said was: “You're just trying to mix me up. I say this pig is a thief, and he ought not to be in the school, much less on the team.”

“I am afraid that you are trying to mix
me
up now,” said Uncle Solomon. “Your saying he is a thief doesn't make him one. Furthermore, since he has not confessed to any crime, nor yet been tried and found guilty … Well, dear me, I think I see one among the audience here who is not only a member of the School Board, but also a distinguished jurist. Judge Willey, would you be good enough to step forward and give us a ruling on this perplexing matter?”

So the judge came forward. “My learned friend,” he said with a bow to the owl, “has, I think, clearly shown the unsoundness of Mr. Garble's position. Under our laws in America, Mr. Garble, the laws of a free people, every person is considered innocent until he is proved guilty. The School Board, therefore,
must
consider this pig innocent. Furthermore, Mr. Garble, should we dismiss him from the team because of your assertion that he is a criminal, he could then bring suit against you for slander, defamation of character, perjury, conspiracy and bad temper. And if the case were to come up before me, I should unhesitatingly award him damages running into very high figures indeed, which you would have to pay. I think,” he said, turning with a bow to Uncle Solomon, “that that is an opinion in which my learned friend will heartily concur.”

The owl returned the bow. “With the utmost completeness,” he said. “You have given us, my esteemed colleague, an exposition of the finer points of the legal aspects of this case which, for clarity, brevity and wit, it would be difficult to equal in the highest courts in the land.”

They bowed again to each other and then looked sternly at Mr. Garble. And Mr. Garble growled angrily and walked off the field.

After the practice Freddy went back to Mrs. Church's. He found his hostess sitting on the porch. “The funniest thing, Freddy,” she said. “You know that terrible pie I brought you?—well, I've found out why it was so hard. You know, after my cook left, I wondered why some of the things I made turned out so queer. But that cook was a very odd person. I don't think she could read, for she kept everything in the wrong place. The sugar was in the salt jar, and the coffee was in a tin marked baking soda, and so on. So when I made the pie, I used what I supposed was flour. But do you know what she had in the flour bin?—plaster of Paris!”

“That was sort of dangerous, wasn't it?” said Freddy.

“I guess it was! But what I wanted to tell you was, I've baked another pie just like it, except the filling is different. —Oh, don't look so thunderstruck; I'll tell you why. Sit down.

“You see,” she said, “I didn't use Mr. Bean's money to bail you out. The more I thought of it, the more I thought it was a bad idea. I used my own money. And the money you gave me—well, I baked it in that pie.”

“But—but how will we ever get it out?”

“When the time comes you can crack it open with a sledge hammer. In the meantime, it's safe. Nobody but an alligator could take a bite out of it. Now what did you do with the other one?”

Freddy told her. “And I think tonight I'll take this one down and substitute it for the other. After all, it's stolen money, and it isn't right for you to have it here.”

“I don't mind,” she said. “But the jail is an awfully good place for it. If you can do it without making the sheriff suspicious. You can go down after supper.”

“After—supper?” Freddy looked at her doubtfully. “Er—what are we going to have for supper?”

She laughed. “Don't worry. Everything's in the right place now. I won't give you ammonia soup or anything like that.”

So after supper Freddy went down to the jail with the money pie under his coat. The sheriff was playing checkers with Looey, and he didn't pay any attention when Freddy wandered out into the dining room, and he only said: “So long; drop in again,” when Freddy came back and said he guessed he'd go home.

Freddy really did go home: he went out to the farm. On his way he threw the apple pie into some bushes, where it was found the next spring by some Boy Scouts. It looked good, and they sat down by the road to eat it. Half an hour and three broken teeth later they threw it back where they'd found it, and I guess it's there yet.

Freddy sneaked into the cow barn. He didn't wake Mrs. Wiggins up at once, because he wanted to try out the idea he had for getting rid of Mr. Doty. He crept up close to her and whispered: “Hey, Mrs. Johnson!”

Mrs. Wiggins went right on sleeping.

“Hey, Mrs. Prendergast,” Freddy whispered.

Mrs. Wiggins went on sleeping.

“Hey, Mrs. Peppercorn!”

No response.

Then Freddy said in the same tone: “Hey, Mrs. Wiggins!” And the cow raised her head and said: “What? What is it?”

“It's me—Freddy,” said the pig. “Quiet! I don't want the Beans to hear me.”

And then he told her his idea. “You see, you didn't wake up till I used your own name. And that same way we can find out Mr. Doty's name.”

Mrs. Wiggins didn't see what good that would do.

“It will do this much,” said Freddy, “that if he wakes up hearing somebody whispering his real name in the night,—well, who would know his name around here? Only Garble.”

“Land sakes, what would Mr. Garble be doing in Mrs. Bean's spare room in the middle of the night?”

“That's just the point,” Freddy said, and he went on and told her his plan.

“'Twon't work,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “How you going to get into Doty's room? And if you do, and he wakes up—there's enough light in that room at night to recognize you by.”

“Of course I can't get in there,” said Freddy. “The one to do it is Mr. Webb. He can spin down next to Doty's ear, and then if he whispers, Doty won't see him, and—oh, I've worked that all out. But there's no rush. If you'll talk to Webb in the morning, then I'll meet him in a day or two and fix it all up.”

“Yes, you don't want to stay around here. Mr. Bean is awful mad at you. All right, I'll speak to Webb. And you know, Freddy,” she said, “you could work the same thing on Mr. Garble.”

“Golly,” said Freddy excitedly, “that's right. Sure we could! Oh, we've got to think this over carefully. Is Mr. Bean so mad at me that he won't let you come down to the game Saturday?”

Mrs. Wiggins chuckled. “I don't know as he's quite as mad as that. I wouldn't be surprised if he came down himself. The way I look at it, Freddy, there's only half of him that's mad at you—the half that don't like your pretending to be him on the telephone, and running off with his money. But there's another half that's kind of doubtful about Doty. He's not nearly so sure Doty is who he claims he is as Mrs. Bean is. Gracious, I'm too sleepy to talk—getting my verbs all mixed up.”

“Well, goodnight,” said Freddy, and got on his bicycle and rode back down to his comfortable room at Mrs. Church's.

Chapter 16

The crowd that streamed out to the athletic field that Saturday to see Centerboro play Tushville was one of the largest in the history of the team. Main Street was deserted; indeed the only person left in the village was old Mr. Lawrence, who had gone out the previous Saturday, under the impression that that was the day of the game, and was so mad about his mistake that he stayed home.

Most of Tushville had come over too, for they had heard about the pig on the Centerboro team and had laughed themselves sick over it. But the players, who knew how Freddy had upset Plutarch Mills, hadn't laughed. “If that pig tries any of his funny business on
us
,” they said, “we'll sizzle his bacon for him!” And when the two teams came out to warm up, Freddy was scared. He was sure that a procession of ants with very cold feet was promenading up his backbone and he could feel that his tail had come uncurled. For the Tushvillers were big. Even those who were plainly schoolboys were big, but the right guard and the right tackle, who would be facing him, were grown men and one of the backs had a black beard.

“I want you to hold back during the first quarter, Freddy,” said Mr. Finnerty. “You'll have to play hard, of course, but don't get through their line too fast, and when you block, act sort of clumsy, so they'll get the idea you can't do them much harm. We'll try to get them off guard, so that when you really do go in we can give them the works. Jason, you better play a passing game at first, and let Jimmy Witherspoon punt as early as the second down. OK, I guess we're ready.”

Centerboro kicked off, and Black Beard caught it and came pounding down the field behind four of his team mates. The Centerboro players converged upon him, but Freddy hung back, trotting now this way and now that, as if bewildered. Angry voices from the home fans shouted at him: “Come on, pig! Get in there and play! What are you doing—looking for four-leaf clovers?” But Freddy paid no attention. When Black Beard was finally pulled down on Centerboro's thirty-yard line, he was off at the other side of the field.

The angry yells went on, but they were drowned out in a shout of laughter from the Tushville supporters. The Tushville principal, a big red-faced man, came over and slapped Mr. Gridley on the back. “So that's your famous pig!” he jeered. “You better put a fence around the field to keep him from getting lost!”

Mr. Gridley just shrugged his shoulders and moved off.

Tushville went into a huddle, and then snapped into position. The tackle opposite Freddy was a giant who scowled ferociously at him. “Know my name, pig?” he growled. “It's Joe Butcher. Butcher—get that? I'm the butcher and you're the pig, and, boy, are you on the chopping block now!”

“Oh, dear!” said Freddy. “Oh, dear!” And he pretended to shiver. For he wasn't scared any longer. “If this guy is trying to scare me,” he thought, “it must mean that he's scared himself. Though why he should be, after that last play, I don't know.” So when the center passed the ball, he crouched low, and as Butcher came at him he sprang and drove his snout right into the man's stomach.

A pig's snout is pretty tough. Mr. Butcher said Whoosh! and doubled up on the ground. But the play, a sweep around left end, went on and Tushville scored a touchdown.

While they were waiting for Butcher to get his wind back, Jason said: “Take it easy, Freddy. Mr. Finnerty said never mind if they score.”

Tushville kicked off, and Clip Brannigan, who played right end, got the ball and managed to reach the middle of the field before he was downed. Then Jimmy Witherspoon dropped back and punted. It was a beautiful punt, and a Tushville back fell on it on his ten-yard line.

When they took position for the next play, Butcher didn't make any more faces at Freddy. But he looked pretty determined as he crouched, with one hand protecting his stomach, and the other on the ground. “I mustn't let him take me too seriously yet,” Freddy thought; so when the ball was passed and Butcher plunged at him, he just turned and ran away. He circled round to the right, and then he saw that Black Beard was in the clear, only a few yards from him, and just catching a long pass. It looked like a sure touchdown, for as the man started to run there wasn't a Centerboro player anywhere near him. Except Freddy.

Freddy knew that he ought to hold back, and yet he didn't want that touchdown made. Black Beard was running straight towards him. He was grinning and evidently quite sure that Freddy couldn't stop him. So Freddy didn't try to tackle. As the man came on, he squealed despairingly, and then zigzagged, as if trying to dodge. “Out of my way, old lard bucket!” Black Beard said. And then Freddy, as if completely demoralized, threw himself down on the ground. But as he fell, he rolled. He rolled right into Black Beard's legs. And Black Beard turned an elegant cartwheel, dropped the ball, and ended, very much perplexed, lying flat on his back.