CHAPTER

3

Mr. J. J. Pomeroy was a robin, and the head of the A.B.I., the Animal Bureau of Investigation, which often worked with Freddy on his detective cases. The next morning, Freddy called on Mr. Pomeroy in his nest in the elm tree on the Bean’s front lawn. That is, he didn’t try to climb up to the nest; he tapped on the tree trunk, and Mr. Pomeroy flew down to him.

After they had exchanged greetings and Freddy had inquired after the health of Mrs. Pomeroy and the children, he told Mr. Pomeroy about last night’s meeting.

“Dear, dear,” said the robin, “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Neither do I,” Freddy said, “and I think you’d better put your whole force on it right away. I’d watch Garble and Anderson. We know they’re enemies of the Beans, and of the F.A.R.”

“I’ll do it right away,” said Mr. Pomeroy. “I know there’s been something going on—some unrest, specially among the rabbits, but I couldn’t put a claw on it. Only it certainly isn’t just the rabbits. I agree with you that there’s probably a man behind it. But we’ll—Hey!” he broke off. “Look who’s coming.”

A long black car was turning through the gate. It stopped beside Freddy, and a short red-faced man with a bristly mustache leaned out of the window. “Hi, Freddy!”

“Mr. Camphor!” Freddy exclaimed, and went over and shook hands.

“Why so formal?” Mr. Camphor asked. “What’s the use of having a first name if your friends won’t use it?”

“I’m sorry—er, Jimson,” said the pig. “May I present my friend, Mr. J. J. Pomeroy? He’s head of the A.B.I. Mr. C. Jimson Camphor, J.J.”

The robin flew up into the window opening and extended a claw. “Very happy to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a good deal about you, of course.”

“And you’re going to hear more, I’m afraid,” Mr. Camphor said. “You know what I’ve done, Freddy? I’ve let ’em persuade me to run for governor of the state.”

“Why, that’s wonderful, Jimson,” said Freddy. “I’m sure you’ll make a good one.”

“Cheer up,” said Mr. Camphor gloomily. “Maybe I won’t get elected. Goodness, I don’t know anything about governing. Oh, I’ve worked in Washington a lot, on committees investigating things. But when Senator Blunder and Judge Anguish and some of ’em came and asked me to run—well, all I could think of was that I’d be famous, and I said yes. So I got nominated on the Republican ticket. But then I got to thinking I didn’t know anything about being governor, and maybe my fame would be the wrong kind—you know what the newspapers would say: ‘Governor Camphor’s administration has been marked by the most abjectly stupid incompetency ever exhibited by an incumbent of the gubernatorial mansion.’ Stuff like that.”

“Guber—what?” inquired Mr. Pomeroy.

“It’s Latin for governor,” said Freddy. “Anybody can use words like that ought to get elected easy. That one word alone ought to be good for ten thousand votes. And ‘incumbent’—easily another five thousand.”

“That’s the trouble,” Mr. Camphor said. “When I’m in front of an audience, I just can’t help using words like those. I could sound like a fine governor, if I didn’t have to do any governing. Freddy, you’ve just got to get me out of this. And you’ve had political experience. Electing that cow—your friend Mrs. Wiggins—as President of the First Animal Republic. Come up for a few days. The committee’s there now, planning the campaign. You can tell ’em confidentially that I’m a crook or something—not fit to sit in the governor’s chair.”

Freddy shook his head. “They won’t listen to a pig.”

“You won’t be a pig; you’ll be a local politician—Dr. Hopper. The same disguise you had when we had the trouble with Mr. Eha, remember? Sure, a doctor—you can tell ’em I’m crazy—not fit to govern. And that’s true enough, anyway.” Mr. Camphor frowned and was silent a moment. “There’s something else, too,” he said. “A detective job. Just came up last night, and—Well, I’ll tell you when you get there. I do need you, Freddy.”

Even though he was needed badly at home, Freddy didn’t see how he could refuse. Mr. Camphor was a close friend, and had done him many favors. He gave Mr. Pomeroy certain instructions, and then went up to the pig pen, and put on the black clothes and the derby and the beard he had worn the previous evening. Then he glanced at himself in the mirror and frowned. He looked enough like a human to get by, if the lights weren’t too bright. He had found that people usually see what they expect to see. Introduced to Dr. Hopper, they’d see Dr. Hopper. He might look like a pig, but it wouldn’t occur to them that he really was one. But in the house he’d have to take the derby off and he couldn’t get by without a hat on.

He didn’t like wigs. They always looked false. Beards nowadays, even real ones, looked false anyway, so the beard didn’t matter. He opened the wig drawer in his dresser and tried on several, finally selecting a very curly one that came well down over his forehead. Then with the scissors he trimmed the beard to a point, to look more professional.

Finally he selected a very curly one that came well down over his forehead.

“By George, Freddy,” said Mr. Camphor, as the pig got into the car, “you certainly do look distinguished. You’re the one ought to be running for governor—not me.” He thought a minute. “I wonder if we couldn’t arrange it. I wonder—”

Freddy didn’t say anything. He didn’t know much about politics, but he thought it highly unlikely that even the most powerful political machine would dare to put a pig into such an important position. They drove down the Centerboro road, and after a mile or so, swung left into the road that led up to the south shore of Otesaraga Lake. A few miles farther, and the car turned through the tall iron gates of the Camphor estate.

On the terrace in front of the big house, a group of distinguished-looking men were sitting in garden chairs. They were all smoking large cigars, and seemed to be having a lively argument.

“Oh dear,” said Freddy. “Jimson, I—I don’t think I’ll be any good here. I can’t discuss high government affairs with these people.”

Mr. Camphor laughed. “If you did, they wouldn’t know what you were talking about. You sit still and listen for a while; I guess you can get into the conversation all right. When I left, they were arguing about the best way to make fudge.” He took Freddy out on to the terrace and introduced him. “My friend, Dr. Hopper, gentlemen. Senator Blunder, Judge Anguish, Colonel Buglett, Mr. Slurp, Mr. Glockenspiel.” They shook hands. “Dr. Hopper is my chief political adviser,” Mr. Camphor said.

“Never heard of him,” said Colonel Buglett shortly.

Freddy scowled. He still felt out of place, and would have been happy to sink through the flagging of the terrace, if there had been a trap door handy. But he was angry at the rudeness offered to Mr. Camphor. He drew himself up. “Never heard of you, either,” he said.

Colonel Buglett scowled too and started to his feet, but Judge Anguish put a hand on his arm. “Come, come, Percy,” he said; and then to Freddy: “I’m sure Colonel Buglett didn’t mean any discourtesy.”

“No discourtesy,” said the Colonel. “Just meant I never heard of him.”

Freddy and Mr. Camphor both opened their mouths to speak, but Senator Blunder stood up and raised his hand. “Gentlemen,” he said commandingly, “the party can never elect a governor if we are continually snapping at one another. I had never heard of Dr. Hopper either until Mr. Camphor spoke of him yesterday. But I have every confidence in Mr. Camphor’s judgment; if I had not, I would scarcely wish to have him as governor of our great state. Therefore, when Mr. Camphor tells us that Dr. Hopper is a truly great politician, I accept that statement as the truth.”

Colonel Buglett still looked doubtful, but before he could say anything, Mr. Camphor said: “I should perhaps have given you a little more information about Dr. Hopper’s experience and background. Perhaps if I say that he was formerly adviser to President Wiggins, it will be enough. No one, I suppose, will care to question President Wiggins’ fame.”

Apparently no one did, but Freddy could see all of their lips moving as they tried to place Wiggins in the long list of Presidents of the United States. He could actually read the lips of some of them. Colonel Buglett started at the present and worked backward. He got as far as Harding and stuck. Senator Blunder and Mr. Slurp worked from the other end. With their heads together, they were whispering: “Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison …” They got as far as Buchanan before they bogged down.

Mr. Glockenspiel asked what Wiggins was doing now.

“General Wiggins,” said Mr. Camphor. “Commander in Chief of the F.A.R.” He spoke as if he were shocked that Mr. Glockenspiel could be so ignorant.

Freddy had a hard time keeping a straight face. Of course, his whiskers helped a lot. He wished Jinx was there, to hear all this. Actually, everything Mr. Camphor had said was the truth, but if these men had known that the Wiggins, whose name they were hearing with such respect, was a cow … And the F.A.R., the First Animal Republic on the Bean farm … But, of course, there were so many government departments and labor unions and organizations of various kinds that were known only by their initials—like the C.I.O. and the N.A.M. and so on—that politicians couldn’t possibly keep track of them all. But they wouldn’t dare ask and thus expose their ignorance. Probably, they thought the F.A.R. was the Federal Army Reserve, or something like that.

Whatever they may have thought, they didn’t seem to have any more doubts about Dr. Hopper. Mr. Camphor’s bluff had turned him into a very important person. Freddy decided that a little more bluffing wouldn’t do any harm. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I should perhaps tell you at once that General Wiggins and I had a long conference yesterday on the possibility of electing Mr. Camphor governor. And though this may come as a shock to some of you—and particularly to you, Jimson—the General will not support your candidacy.”

Now if you are told that some piece of information will come as a shock to you, the chances are that you will really feel shocked, even if the information itself isn’t of the slightest importance. Senator Blunder said: “Good gracious me!” and Mr. Slurp threw up his hands. Even Colonel Buglett seemed put out. Mr. Camphor, however, did not make a success of his expression. It is hard to look disappointed with a broad grin on your face.

Judge Anguish said: “This is very strange. What seems to be the General’s objection?”

“Well, gentlemen—” Freddy hesitated. “This is confidential, you understand. The General would be very indignant if it leaked out to the newspapers. He does not question Mr. Camphor’s ability. But he feels—and I think perhaps, on due consideration, you will agree with him—that no governor should yawn continually through the speeches of members of his own party. Or on other public occasions. I regret to report this, Jimson, but you know yourself that during General Wiggins’ Fourth of July speech last year, you expressed boredom rather than enthusiasm.”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Camphor, “did I really? But of course I was bored. Nine out of ten political speeches are just a lot of hot air. Good gracious, even my own speeches bore me to death. I can hardly keep awake to finish them.”

“Very damaging admission,” said Colonel Buglett.

“I don’t see it,” said Mr. Camphor. “I should think the audience, being bored too, would feel sympathetic towards me.”

Judge Anguish said: “Political speeches are not supposed to say anything important. The perfect political speech expresses a lot of noble but very vague sentiments in extremely high-flown language. That’s what brings out the votes.”

Freddy thought of the flowery speeches that his friend Charles, the rooster, made, and of the enthusiastic applause they brought out, although ten minutes after Charles had finished, nobody could remember what he had said.

“General Wiggins had several other objections,” Freddy went on. “He said that he esteemed you highly as an assistant, but that there were several things about you that made you undesirable as a figure who must appear dignified on public platforms and on public occasions. The General mentioned specially that at a rally in Syracuse you slapped two babies instead of kissing them—”

“Of course I slapped them,” said Mr. Camphor. “When I started to kiss them, they bit me.”

“He also said,” Freddy went on, “that he felt that your habit of eating gumdrops in public was highly undignified. Particularly, when someone in the audience asks you a question, and you can’t get your jaws apart to answer it.”

“I have always eaten gumdrops,” said Mr. Camphor. “I am very fond of gumdrops. Particularly the licorice ones. If I have to give up gumdrops in order to become governor, then I renounce the honor. As to dignity, I have never pretended to be dignified. When dignity is needed, I summon my butler. That is what I hire him for. Bannister!” he called.

A very tall man in a black coat with tails came out of the house and crossed the terrace to stand beside Mr. Camphor’s chair. He was so dignified that he didn’t look at Mr. Camphor; he held his head up very high and looked out across the lake. “You rang, sir?” he asked.

“I yelled,” said Mr. Camphor.

“Just so, sir,” said Bannister.

“We need a little dignity, Bannister.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man. “Thank you, sir.” And he continued to stand staring out superciliously over the water.

“By George!” Senator Blunder exclaimed. “You really haven’t much dignity, Camphor. I never realized it before.”

“It’s what I’ve been telling you,” Mr. Camphor replied. “I’m not fit to be governor.”

“Now, now,” Judge Anguish interrupted, “you promised, Camphor. And it’s too late to change now. Why, we’ve got the ballots all printed with your name on them. Do you realize what that costs?”

“And there’s no reason why you can’t lay off gumdrops, at least in public, for a while,” put in Mr. Slurp.

“He can’t lay off giggling,” said Freddy. “That’s the thing that seemed most serious of all to General Wiggins. It doesn’t matter whether he’s addressing the legislature or laying a cornerstone—he giggles all the time. Even in church, he giggles. The General says we don’t want a giggling governor.”

“Certainly not,” said the Judge. “But is that so, Camphor? I hadn’t noticed that you giggled.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Camphor. “Can’t seem to help it, somehow. At the solemnest moments. Te-hee! There I go now. Hee-hee-hee!” He giggled violently.

“Good gracious!” Senator Blunder exclaimed. “This is serious! I’m glad we found it out. Still … Camphor’s the man we want. Isn’t there some cure for it—can’t something be done, Dr. Hopper? We can keep him away from babies, and we can make him promise to swear off gumdrops. Can’t you give him some treatment for these giggles?”

Before Freddy could reply, Bannister suddenly spoke. He didn’t move, and his eyes still looked off across the lake. “Laugh and the world laughs with you,” he said.

Freddy remembered how fond Mr. Camphor and Bannister were of proverbs. They were always arguing about them, and testing them out to see if they were true. Now Mr. Camphor stopped giggling. “Maybe you’re right, Bannister,” he said, “but it isn’t so that giggle and the world giggles with you. The world just thinks you’re silly.”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Slurp; “what do you think, gentlemen—it’s pretty late in the day to drop Camphor from the ticket, but after all—a giggler!”

“Not dignified, no,” said Judge Anguish. “But perhaps there’s been too much dignity in government. We like it. But do the people like it? You know, gentlemen, I have a hunch that they’d like a little less dignity and more giggles. Yes, gentlemen, that gives me an idea. The first new idea in politics in a hundred years. There’s our slogan: ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you.’ And instead of making the usual speeches, all full of campaign promises, Camphor will tell jokes and giggle. Camphor, the giggling governor! It’s a natural, gentlemen. It will be a landslide!”

“I believe you’re right, Anguish,” said the Senator; and Colonel Buglett said: “You’ve got something there.” Mr. Slurp and Mr. Glockenspiel nodded approval.

“Shucks!” said Mr. Camphor disgustedly. He looked up at Bannister. “Oh, go away,” he said. “You and your dignity!”

The committee had gone into a huddle. Each one had a favorite joke that he was trying to suggest for Mr. Camphor’s speeches, and each was laughing so hard at his own joke that he heard nothing the others said. Bannister glanced at them, then bent down. “He who laughs last, laughs best,” he said. He winked at Freddy, whom he had, of course, recognized, since he had seen the Dr. Hopper disguise before. Then he bowed stiffly and turned and marched into the house.