Freddy the Politician (12 page)

“Being a bug, the election means nothing to me,” said Jacob, “but I don't like birds, and I don't think a bird would be a good president. He'd be too careless. Here's what I mean. You take this Grover. He eats bugs, and I don't hold it against him, for it's his nature so to do. Anyway, he doesn't eat wasps. And that's just what I mean. He doesn't like wasps, and yet if I walk up a tree in front of him, chances are he'll make a grab at me. Why? He'll only get stung. I say birds are careless.”

“Well,” said Jinx, “I don't eat beetles, but I often make a grab at them. Just for fun.”

“You wouldn't if they had stings like this,” said Jacob, making a playful pass at the cat, who jumped back with a yowl.

“You see?” said the wasp. “But birds never learn. Look at chickens. There isn't a chicken of my acquaintance who has ever learned that the way not to be run over by an automobile is to get off the road. They jump and squawk and run all over the road and act like fools every time they see one. They never learn. That's why I say that all this talk of Grover's about your needing a president with experience is funny. I don't say he hasn't
had
lots of it, but he hasn't learned anything by it. And so what good is it?”

“What's the point of this lecture?” asked Jinx, who was getting bored.

“The point is that I'm on your side and might be some help. A good sting in the right place might be worth a couple of hundred votes.”

“And the right place would be Grover's neck,” said Jinx enthusiastically.

But Freddy said: “No. That's decent of you, Jacob, but we can't have violence. You get around a lot, though. I wish you'd keep your eyes and ears open. I'd like to know why Grover is so sure of being elected.”

“I can tell you one reason. He's got the chicken vote sewed up.”

“Oh, that's just Charles,” said Jinx contemptuously. “He's been making a lot of speeches about how birds are nature's aristocrats and the true leaders of the animal world.”

“Grover's got Henrietta,” said Jacob. “He called on her yesterday and I was sitting on the roof of the henhouse and heard the conversation. He promised her that if he was elected he'd get her a revolving door for the henhouse, and Henrietta promised him all the chicken vote in return. Because she said no matter how many doors they had, the chickens were always trying to go in when others were going out and they were pushing and bumping into one another and it took half her time getting them straightened out.”

“But he can't give them that,” said Freddy. “It would cost money. That is something for Mr. Bean to decide on.”

“Maybe he can't give it to them,” said Jacob, “but he's promised, and that's what counts in elections. And I'll tell you another thing, Freddy. Now that he's got you out of the bank and can run it the way he wants to, he's promised that every squirrel and chipmunk and field mouse that votes for him can use the vaults to store his things in free. I heard that speech. ‘I pledge you my word,' he said, ‘that you will not have to pay one penny for that to which every creature on this farm has an inalienable right—provided he votes for me.'”

“He promised the rabbits a large vegetable garden of their own,” said Jinx, “and what he called ‘unrestricted right of entry' to Mr. Bean's garden, which I took to mean that they could go in whenever they wanted to. But they didn't fall for it. They know Mr. Bean. Still, I don't know. Some of the rabbits are pretty silly. They might vote for him, at that.”

Freddy thought for a minute. Then he said suddenly: “I'm going back and talk to old Whibley. He's got ideas, if you can only get 'em out of him.”

“Not me,” said Jinx. “I've had enough of his sarcastic cracks.”

“He tells you the truth about yourself,” said Freddy. “Maybe it'd be a good idea to hear it once in a while.”

“Not me either,” said Jacob. “My father used to tell me the truth about myself once in a while, and it was usually accompanied with a licking.”

So Freddy went back into the woods alone. When he got to the old beech tree, old Whibley was still sitting on the same limb, apparently asleep. Freddy sat down politely and waited.

After a while the owl said: “Well, why don't you say something?”

“I thought you were resting,” said Freddy. “I didn't want to disturb you.”

“You came here to disturb me, didn't you?” said old Whibley. “So evidently you wanted to. Well then, why put it off?”

“I came to ask you a question.”

“Same thing,” said the owl.

“Well, anyway,” said Freddy, “I know you don't care much about this election, and all you want is to be left alone. But I guess you like Mr. Bean, and we're Mr. Bean's animals, and maybe you'll help me.” And he told the owl about his worries.

Old Whibley apparently slept through most of it, and once Freddy was sure he saw his head nod, but when it was finished the owl spread his broad wings and flew down to a branch near the ground and said: “I like you, Freddy. Like you because you do ridiculous things. Can't stand that Grover. He couldn't do a ridiculous thing to save his life. That's why he's ridiculous all the time. Well, see here. These promises of his—revolving door in the henhouse, garden for the rabbits, cat-proof apartments for the rats next the feedbin—Oh, you hadn't heard about that, eh? Well, how do you suppose he's going to pay for them?”

“He can't,” said Freddy. “I suppose they're just promises he can't keep.”

“You do, eh? You're forgetting about the bank. Bank's earning two or three dollars a month now, and if he charges twice as much as he does for taking care of things, the animals will pay it. And who's that money belong to, now you're out? Grover.”

“Gosh, I didn't think of that,” said Freddy. “But that isn't enough money to build all the things he has promised.”

“How about Mr. Bean's money the bank has got? Suppose he used that. Mr. Bean comes back. ‘Where's my money?' ‘Sorry, Mr. Bean,' says Grover. ‘We had to use that for necessary improvements.' What's Mr. Bean going to do? Go to law with a woodpecker? He'd rather lose his money than look as silly as that.”

“Yes, but—” Freddy began.

“Don't
talk
,” said old Whibley severely. “Let me do the talking. That's why you're here, isn't it?”

He didn't say anything for a while—just sat there with his eyes closed, and this time Freddy was certain he heard him snore. But after a while he opened his eyes and said: “Who dug those new vaults for you?”

“John,” said Freddy.

“A fox,” said the owl. “H'm. Ten to one there's another entrance to them, then. Never knew a fox to dig a hole with only one way out. 'Tisn't natural for them. Now listen to me …”

So Freddy listened for quite a while, and then he went off to find John.

He found him with some of the other animals painting signs to be carried in the big Wiggins parade that evening, and drew him aside.

“I didn't tell you, Freddy,” said the fox, when Freddy asked him point-blank if there was another entrance to the vaults, “because I knew I oughtn't to do it. But a fox can't any more go into a hole that hasn't two ways out than he can fly. He just can't. Well, there's a hole behind the stone wall back of the bank, and it goes straight down to the board room. It's covered up in the board room so nobody will notice it. Now I do hope you aren't going to say anything about it to Grover. I guess he'd be pretty sore, and—”

“You keep as quiet about it as I do,” said Freddy, “and there'll be no trouble. See you later.”

Peter, the bear, was poking about among the wild raspberry bushes at the edge of the woods when Freddy found him.

“Well, salt-and-pepper me if it isn't Freddy!” said Peter. “Well, how are you, Freddy? That's a foolish question, though. I can see you're fine. Fat as butter.”

“Thanks for nothing,” said Freddy. “I've heard about enough of that fat talk today.”

“Why, what's the matter with that? Finest compliment you can pay a bear. But we have to be fat because we sleep all winter. Well, maybe you don't like it, but it's very becoming to you. I was just looking over these raspberries. Doing a little pruning and so on. Going to have a nice crop next fall. You must come up and have a dish of them with me some day when they're ripe.”

“Like to,” said Freddy. “I expect raspberries aren't very fattening. Say, Peter, I've got a little digging job I wonder if you'd do for me.”

Peter said there was nothing he'd like better, so Freddy took him down to the stone wall behind the bank, and sure enough, there was a hole just large enough for a fox.

“Want it enlarged to fit you, eh?” said Peter. “Let's see, you take about a 44? Leave it to me. It'll fit you like a glove.” And he began digging.

“Not too tight,” said Freddy anxiously. “I don't want to get stuck.”

Peter's head was already out of sight, and the stones and dirt were flying all around Freddy. Freddy turned his back, hunched his shoulders, and kept a sharp lookout for the woodpeckers. But he was perfectly safe; politics were absorbing the attention of every bird and animal on the farm.

Freddy turned his attention back to the digging.

Peter went deeper and deeper into the hole and finally disappeared, but dirt continued to fly out. It looked like a small volcano in eruption. After a while it stopped, and there was a scrabbling underground and Peter came out, head first. “There you are,” he said. “All ready for a fitting. Try it on, and if it's a little too snug under the arms, we'll alter it free of charge.”

So Freddy went down. He didn't like crawling down holes much, so he went down backwards. “If I decide to come out in a hurry,” he said to himself, “it will be pleasanter to come out head first.” But the hole wasn't bad. It was almost straight down, but it was short, and when he got into the board room there was enough light from above so that he could look around. Not that there was much to see. The roof was a big flat rock, and the walls were dirt, with a small hole in one of them which was the tunnel up to the bank. Freddy shoved a couple of loose stones into the tunnel and packed dirt around them. “Guess the room's woodpecker-proof now,” he said with a grin. Then he went up and thanked Peter, and after sneaking along behind the stone wall until he was some distance from the hole, came out and trotted down to the bank.

Just as he got there, the twelve o'clock whistle blew in Centerboro, and, punctual to the second, Grover and John Quincy came out of the door.

“Good noon, gentlemen,” said Freddy politely. “Off to lunch?”

“Yes,” said John Quincy. “Where are you lunching, Father?”

“I thought of trying that oak down beyond the barn,” said Grover. “The beetles are very good there.”

“I have to make one or two calls before lunch,” said John Quincy. “Meet you at the oak in half an hour. So long, Freddy.”

“Just a minute,” said the pig. “I wanted to ask you when the next board meeting is to be held.”

“What difference does it make to you?” said Grover. “You can't vote at it.”

“I do if the president isn't there and I have to take his place.”

“The president will be there, don't worry,” said John Quincy. “The meeting's this afternoon at three, though, if you want to know.”

“Well, there's another thing,” said Freddy. “I've decided I'd like to be president of the bank.”

“Have you indeed?” asked Grover sarcastically, and John Quincy said: “Freddy, are you crazy? We just voted you out—do you think we'd vote you in again?”

“Well,” said Freddy humbly, “I just thought maybe you were tired of the job. And I'd like it. And I do think the board should vote on it.”

The woodpeckers started to argue, but Freddy was determined, and he argued back at them, and finally Grover said impatiently: “Well, I'm in a hurry. I can't stand here all day. All right, Freddy, all right. The meeting this afternoon will vote on whether or not you are to be president of the bank. And I hope you'll like its decision,” he added dryly.

“I will abide by its decision,” said Freddy.

“Yes,” said Grover. “So will we, you may be sure.” And with a short laugh he flew away.

Freddy laughed too, after they had gone, and then he hurried back to the board room to wait for three o'clock. He slept awhile, and he spent an hour or so composing a national anthem for the F.A.R., and at last, at two minutes of three, he heard a faint scraping and rustling in the blocked-up passageway that led to the bank, and he knew that the woodpeckers were coming to the meeting. He waited until it was exactly three o'clock. On the other side of the stones and dirt with which he had blocked the tunnel he could hear Grover and John Quincy talking together in low, excited tones. And then he said in a loud voice: