The Story of Freginald (16 page)

All this thinking going on depressed Mr. Boomschmidt even more. “My goodness,” he said, “it's bad enough to have nobody coming to see the show without having all you animals acting this way. I wish you'd stop it. You don't catch me thinking, do you? I guess not! I've got enough trouble without doing that.”

The animals said: “Yes, sir,” and went right on thinking—all except Oscar, who said that it made him have bad dreams. Freginald was one of the chief thinkers, and indeed he had more to think about than the others. He wished that he hadn't given his word not to say anything about Mr. Hackenmeyer getting his hair and mustache curled, for somehow, he felt, that fact was important. But he couldn't seem to figure out why.

He did remember one thing that Lucky had said—that Mr. Hackenmeyer was always going to beauty parlors. So the first thing he did when they came to a town was to post one or two of the smaller animals near the door of the local beauty shop, with instructions to watch carefully everybody that went in and report to him. Usually the only person they saw was Leo, who since he had got his permanent wave was so interested in different methods of dressing his mane that even when he couldn't think of anything to have done to it he would run in to discuss new styles with the young ladies. But at last one day in Centerboro one of the hyenas came running to Freginald with news that Mr. Hackenmeyer had gone into the Golden Glow Beauty Shop on Main Street.

“How do you know it was Mr. Hackenmeyer?” Freginald asked.

“Oh, I remember him,” said the hyena. “I was with the show before he left it. Of course, I haven't seen him in a number of years, but I couldn't be mistaken. And listen, Fredg, he's getting his hair curled. I heard him ask. Can you beat that?”

“Let's find Mr. Boomschmidt,” said Freginald.

Mr. Boomschmidt was in his wagon playing checkers with one of the leopards. Neither of them liked checkers, but it was the only game both of them knew except slap-jack, and nobody is going to play slap-jack with a leopard.

When Mr. Boomschmidt heard the news, he said: “Well, upon my soul! First Leo and then old Hack! What's the circus business coming to?”

“Didn't Mr. Hackenmeyer have curly hair?” asked Freginald.

“Why, yes. So he did! Of course! Bless me, that's strange, isn't it? Old Hack, spending money for something he don't need. Not like him. Not like anybody, for that matter. Must have been somebody else, boys.”

“It was Mr. Hackenmeyer all right,” said the hyena.

“And he doesn't like doughnuts any more, either,” said Freginald.

“Doesn't like doughnuts!” exclaimed Mr. Boomschmidt. “Oh, come, come; you'll be telling me next that he has long green whiskers. How do you know he doesn't like 'em?”

“I heard him say so.”

“Well, that isn't Hack,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “It was somebody else you boys saw.”

“Look, chief,” said Freginald, “maybe it was somebody else we saw. But then why does he call himself Mr. Hackenmeyer and why is he running that circus?”

“My goodness,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, looking very serious all at once, “that is so—why does he?”

“And if he is not the real Mr. Hackenmeyer, who is he? And where is Mr. Hackenmeyer?”

“Gracious, I don't know. You ask so many questions, Freginald. And, after all, what difference does it make who is running that circus as long as it is running? That's the important thing.”

“Except that if Mr. Hackenmeyer was really running it, maybe he would go away and not try to ruin your business.”

“Maybe,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “Well, what do you want me to do? My goodness, can't I have a little peace and quiet? You boys come in here and tell me a lot of things and mix me all up, and it doesn't make any difference anyway. There isn't anything we can do.”

So Freginald didn't say any more, and he and the hyena went away. But after the show he paid a call on Leo.

The lion was inclined to agree with Mr. Boomschmidt that it didn't make much difference who was running the Hackenmeyer show. “But,” he said “it won't do any harm to find out as much as we can. If this man is a crook and we can prove it, we can send him to jail. Only how can we find out? None of us can get anywhere near that outfit. —Oh, wait a minute,” he said suddenly. “A couple of years ago when the show was in Centerboro, there was a pig—gosh, what was his name? He was one of those animals that went to Florida a few years ago. Lives on a farm owned by a man named Bean. Well, anyway, this pig's a detective. And he came over here and gave us animals a lecture on how detectives work. Boy, he was a wonder! He could just look at you and tell your whole past history. Now, if we could get him to help us—”

“Let's go see him tonight,” said Freginald.

Leo went to the door of his wagon and looked out. “Better wait till morning,” he said. “It's beginning to sprinkle now, and it'll be raining hard before we get there. It's all of six miles.”

“Pooh,” said Freginald, “what's a little rain?”

“Well, it's enough to take the curl out of my mane. And I can't afford to have another wave now—not the way we're losing money.”

“I thought it was supposed to be permanent?”

“That's what they call it. But I'm not taking any chances. I'd look fine, wouldn't I, if it all came out?”

“You'd look more like a lion,” said Freginald crossly. “Well, then, I'll have to go alone. We can't afford to waste time. How do I get there?”

CHAPTER 15

Freginald's coat was much better than any umbrella. It would be hours before the rain could soak through his thick fur. He didn't even feel it, except on the tip of his nose, where it was pleasantly cool and refreshing. He trudged along through the darkness thinking up what he would say to the detective. He didn't like pigs as a rule; they were frivolous, always making fun of people, and apt to be rather touchy and sarcastic if you didn't praise them enough. Still, he could put up with a lot of sarcasm if this pig would really help him.

It was nearly nine o'clock when he came to the Bean farm. Leo had told him that he could recognize it by the light. And sure enough, although the house itself was dark, there were lights twinkling everywhere—in the stable and the henhouse and the pigpen and even glowing warmly through the neatly curtained windows of the cow-barn. Mr. Bean—so Leo had said—had made all these improvements with the money his animals had found on their trip to Florida. Freginald had never seen a farm like it.

He turned in at the gate and started across toward the pigpen. As he passed the cow-barn the door flew open and a rooster came out. “Good night, ladies. Pleasant dreams to you,” he said pompously and he paused on the threshold; and “Good night, Charles,” came several deep voices from within. Then the rooster hunched his shoulders against the rain, started across toward the henhouse, and ran plump into Freginald.

“Look out, there!” he exclaimed crossly. “Why don't you watch where you're going?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Freginald. “I was just—”

“Oh, you were just, you were just!” interrupted Charles. “People seem to think that excuses everything, if they say they were just doing something they hadn't ought to do.”

“I was just looking for—”

“Ah, what did I tell you!” Charles interrupted again. “Just prowling around, just looking for something that doesn't belong to you, I'll wager. Well, see here, young bear, whoever you are. Do you know what I am?”

“I know you're getting wetter than you would if you'd stop interrupting me and answer a civil question,” said Freginald. “I'm looking for a pig who lives here—a detective. Can you tell me where to find him?”

“Oh well, that's different,” said Charles. “Why didn't you say so? If you want Freddy you must be all right, as criminals don't go around looking for detectives. But you know Freddy has retired.”

“Oh,” said Freginald. “Well, in that case I'd better come back tomorrow.”

“I mean retired from business,” said Charles. “Not for the night. Goodness, he doesn't go to bed until all hours. He's probably down there in his office now, studying and writing his poetry.”

“Oh, does he write poetry?” said Freginald. “So do I.”

“Do you, indeed?” said Charles condescendingly. “Well, well, very clever of you. But come along; we'll go down and see him. Of course, he's retired officially, but he still takes cases occasionally, if they specially interest him. We'll talk it over.”

Freddy the detective had his office in a special room in the pigpen which Mr. Bean had built for him. “Now, you let me handle this,” said Charles in a whisper as he rapped with his beak on the door.

An irregular clicking noise which had been going on inside stopped and a voice said: “Come in.” Freginald opened the door and there in an old wicker chair with a reading-light on a box beside him sat a plump and pleasant-looking pig. On another box in front of him was a broken-down typewriter.

“Ah, engrossed in the composition of some metrical masterpiece, no doubt,” said Charles elegantly. “I trust we do not disturb the muse? The truth is, this young gentleman is a great admirer of your verses, and he has come all the way from—where did you say, by the way?” he inquired, turning to Freginald.

“We're at Centerboro now,” said the bear.

“Ah, yes. And the name? I think I didn't catch—”

“My name is Freginald.”

“Freginald—a charming name. Freddy, may I present Freginald? Who is also, I may add, by way of being a poet.”

At that moment there was a tap on the door. Freddy got up to open it, and a gawky young chicken poked his head in and addressed Charles. “Papa, I've been looking for you everywhere. Mamma says to come right home.”

Freddy laughed and Charles looked flustered. “Dear me,” he said, “this is rather embarrassing. I was—”

“You better come,” said the chicken.

“Yes, yes. I—I suppose so.” He turned to Freginald. “You'll forgive me. Domestic matters of importance, no doubt. I must—I—” without finishing the sentence he hurried out.

“Domestic matters, eh?” said Freddy with a laugh. “He's out after nine o'clock, that's what the domestic matters are. Henrietta—that's his wife—she makes him toe the mark. She won't stand any of his nonsense.”

“He was very kind to come over here with me,” said Freginald. “In the rain and everything.”

“Kind!” said Freddy. “Goodness, he wouldn't have let you get away for anything in the world. You're somebody new to use all his language on. We don't pay much attention to it any more. Charles is a good fellow, but he's an awful grand talker. Well, sit down. So you write poetry too, do you? Perhaps you'd tell me what you think of this piece I'm working on now.” He bent over the typewriter and read: