CHAPTER

6

Freddy had his cowboy clothes on that morning, and he had ridden Cy down to the hotel. When he came out with the cylinder he jumped into the saddle and rode westward out of town toward the Bean farm. But he wasn’t going home. Once away from the town, he turned right on a dirt road that led to Otesaraga Lake.

“I hope you know where you’re going, Freddy,” said the horse. “We just passed two carloads of those spies—they’re probably coming back to pick up Uncle Ben’s trail. If you want to let ’em steal those plans—”

“If I want ’em to steal the plans,” Freddy said, “we’ve got first to draw the whole mob away from Uncle Ben. Then when they’re all chasing me, we’ve got to somehow let one of ’em steal them. That will take some figuring.”

“Why not hold an auction,” said Cy. “Golly, some of those governments would pay a couple million dollars for saucer plans, I reckon. And would you be loaded! Steam yachts and private airplanes and—Why, you could buy a ranch in Texas.”

“Can’t be done that way,” said the pig. “I wouldn’t sell even a spy false plans for money.”

“You’ll let him steal ’em,” said Cy. “Oh, sure, there’s a difference. One way you make money out of being patriotic, and the other way you’re just patriotic, period. And what good is that? Sell the false plans, and you take money from the enemy. That’s patriotic, isn’t it?”

“Kind of hard to tell where patriotism stops and dishonesty begins,” said the pig. “Besides, how could we hold an auction? There’d just be another free-for-all fight with us in the middle of it. No, we’ve got to hide from the cops and then let just one spy trail us and steal this cylinder. And it’s got to look good. If we make it too easy he may suspect that these plans are fakes. Then we’ll be in the soup for keeps.”

Indeed, Freddy didn’t have any plan. As he rode along he was trying desperately to think of one. By noon he had ridden up around the east end of the lake and back along the south shore, past the estate of his friend, Mr. Camphor. He would have liked to stop in to see Mr. Camphor, but he knew that by this time Uncle Ben had given the alarm and the police would be looking for him. And if the police came, the spies would come too, and they’d be on Mr. Camphor like a swarm of bees. “It’s like having the mumps,” Freddy said. “You can’t go near your friends for fear of their catching it too.”

He found out soon enough that the police were looking for him. They’d turned up a stony dirt road that wound up into the hills, northwest of the Bean farm, and were perhaps a mile up it when behind them they heard the wail of a siren. Looking back, Freddy saw a car turning off the main road to follow them. “State cop,” he said. “Darn it, he mustn’t catch us. This is no time to get thrown in jail.”

A couple of hundred yards up the hill the road curved and ended in the barnyard of a small farmhouse. All around were open fields. “It’s the house for us,” said Freddy. “There’s no car around so I guess there isn’t anybody home, and the front door is open. Come on, Cy. I can be the man of the house, and maybe you can get down cellar and hide.” And glancing round to see that the curve of the road hid them from the trooper, he reined Cy through the barnyard and right into the front door.

They were in a hall so narrow that Freddy had to slide off over Cy’s tail. There were overalls and a battered hat hanging on pegs; Freddy hung up his own hat, pulled the house owner’s hat well down over his eyes and slid into the overalls. But Cy had found the cellar stairs and backed away from them. “I’m not going down there—not even to save you from the headsman’s axe, Freddy,” he said firmly.

Freddy didn’t argue. “Up the front stairs, then,” he said. “They’re solid, and no cop would look for a horse upstairs.”

So as Cy went clumping up to the second floor, Freddy dashed out through the kitchen. He was bending down, pulling up things in the garden that he hoped were weeds, when the trooper came around the side of the house.

“Where’d that guy go?” the officer demanded.

“What guy?” Freddy asked, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead.

“Guy on a horse just rode in your front door.”

“In the front door!” Freddy exclaimed. “Mister, you—excuse me, but you ought to wear glasses.”

“I saw what I saw,” said the trooper crossly. “He rode in the front door. And what’s more, he didn’t ride out the back door, because I was watching it. He’s inside and I’m going to go in and get him.” He drew a large pistol and turned back into the house.

Freddy went on pulling things up.

The trooper searched the downstairs rooms; then he went back into the hall. He opened the cellar door and looked down and shook his head. He looked at the stairs leading to the upper floor and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Got to be somewhere!” he muttered, and started slowly up.

“Well.” said Freddy to himself. “I can’t desert Cy. He’s sure to be discovered.” He came back into the house and followed the trooper upstairs just as the latter, having looked through several rooms, tried a door which was locked. He shook the handle.

And from behind the door came a terrible falsetto screech, which Freddy could hardly recognize as Cy’s. “Who’s there?”

The trooper started violently. “Moses!” he exclaimed. Then he looked suspiciously at Freddy. “This some monkey business?” he demanded.

“It’s my wife,” said Freddy quickly. He spoke in a voice loud enough so that the horse could hear. Then: “Hey, Minnie,” he called, “there’s a policeman here looking for a man on a horse.”

“Well, he ain’t in here,” Cy shrieked. “I’m takin’ a bath, and this tub ain’t no public swimmin’ pool.”

The trooper stepped next to the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” he said. His voice shook, for the dreadful screech had pretty well unstrung his nerves. “I saw them come into the house, and I thought they must be hiding here.”

“And you want to look in here, hey?” Cy yelled. “Well now, you just wait a minute till I get some duds on. I’ll come down and make you a nice cup of tea. You go down with pa and I’ll be right along. It’s always a pleasure to see new faces.—And say,” Cy added, as the trooper began a hasty retreat, “I ain’t seen your face yet, have I?” And with that the key turned in the lock, the door opened part way, and a terrible brown face over which a bath towel was draped, a face with an immense long nose and huge teeth showing in what was evidently meant to be a hospitable smile, appeared in the opening.

“Great Jehoshaphat Peabody!” whispered the trooper, and he fairly tumbled down the stairs.

“Great Jehoshaphat Peabody!”

Freddy followed him. “We don’t see many folks up here,” he said apologetically. “My wife gets kind of lonesome for company. We’d be pleased to have you stay for tea,” he added.

But the man kept on going. “Yeah?” he said. “Well, you have my sympathy, mister.” And he hurried over to his car.

After he had gone, Cy clumped downstairs. “Pretty quick thinking, eh, Freddy?” he said. “Golly, I ought to be on the stage.”

“Or in the zoo,” the pig replied. “That grin of yours would scare little children into fits. Hey!” he exclaimed suddenly. “The cop’s coming back!” And indeed at that moment the whine of an engine re-climbing the hill was reinforced by the squeal of a police siren.

“Upstairs, quick!” Freddy said, and made again for the garden.

This time the trooper had his pistol out before he got out of the car. He came up to Freddy and pointed it at him. “Go on inside,” he said, “and call your wife down. I’ve decided to accept her invitation to tea.”

“I wonder if you won’t excuse her,” Freddy said. “She doesn’t feel very well—”

The trooper grinned at him and he stopped. “You know,” the man said, “it wasn’t until I got down to the foot of the hill that it occurred to me to wonder how come when your wife stuck her head out of the bathroom door she had a bridle on and a bit in her mouth.” He looked hard at Freddy. “Want to explain it?”

Freddy gave a sigh and went over and stuck his head in the back door. “Come on down, Cy,” he called.

So the horse came down and out into the yard. The trooper regarded him sourly. “You’re one of Bean’s talking animals, I suppose. I might have guessed it.” Then he turned and snatched Freddy’s hat off. “And you’re that pig, Freddy, the alarm is out for.” He looked curiously at the pig. “You know, in my job I have a lot to do with lawbreakers. And what I can’t understand is, how folks come to be criminals. Take like you, now. I’ve heard about you. You’ve got a nicer home and a bigger reputation than any pig in the country. You’ve always behaved yourself and been a patriotic citizen. And all at once you steal these plans and become a thief. Not only a thief, but a traitor. I don’t get it.”

Freddy felt very unhappy. He didn’t like being a thief and a traitor, and listening to such accusations was almost more than he could stand. But while a part of his mind was thinking this, and wishing he could tell the truth, another part was wondering how he could escape from the trooper. For it wouldn’t do for him to be locked up in jail. He would be searched, and the false plans—which he had stuck down his trouser leg—would be found and returned to Uncle Ben. And Uncle Ben would be in the same old trouble again.

An hour later he still hadn’t thought of anything. He was sitting in the office at the troop headquarters, being questioned by a Sergeant Candy. The trooper who had arrested him had driven off again to hunt for the plans, which Freddy described as a roll of papers about three feet long—which probably accounted for his not yet having been searched. Cy, who had trotted along behind the car, was grazing peacefully just outside the open window beside which the pig was sitting.

The sergeant had written down all Freddy’s replies to questions—name, age, occupation, previous arrests, and so on. It had taken some time, for not only had Freddy been arrested several times in the past—as you probably know-but he had been, and still was, active as detective, editor, banker, and poet. The sergeant’s hand got pretty tired, and at last he threw the pen down. “Don’t know what use all this writing is,” he said. “You admit you stole the plans.”

“Oh, sure,” said Freddy.

“You’ll be tried for treason, as well as for stealing,” said the sergeant, “and the judge will probably sentence you to life imprisonment. If you was to tell me where you hid the plans, he might knock off a few years. Save the state a lot of trouble hunting for ’em.”

Freddy shook his head. He got up and went over to the window.

“Hey!” said the sergeant. “None of that! You sit down!”

“Aw, relax,” said Freddy. “I’m only going to give my horse some sugar.” And as Cy came up to the window, he felt in his pocket, then held out an empty hand to the horse, who nuzzled it obligingly. Freddy put his arm around Cy’s neck and his face against Cy’s cheek. Cy endured these endearments with faint disgust. Freddy whispered for a moment in his ear, then gave him a pat and went back to his chair.

The sergeant got up. “Well, I guess I’d better lock you up,” he said. “We’ll take those pistols, and—”

Suddenly from around at the front of the building there came a series of appalling screams: “Help! Murder! Police!”

The sergeant dashed for the door, hesitating only to warn Freddy not to attempt any funny business, then was gone; and Freddy climbed out of the window, just as Cy came cantering around from the front of the house. In three seconds the pig was in the saddle and Cy was on a dead run, taking back fences with a swoop, until they were away from the town and riding cross-country, through open fields.

The sergeant, having found nothing to account for the screams at the front of the house, came back. Freddy was gone, and he ran to the window just as Cy sailed over the back fence. They were already too far away to shoot at, so he ran out and jumped into his car.

And for a while he just sat there. For how can you pursue a horseman cross-country in a car? At last he went back in and sent out a description of Freddy to all the cars and state troop headquarters. They already had the description, but it gave him something to do. And of course he could add that when last seen, the pig was headed north.

For half an hour Cy kept on at the same dead run. Then suddenly he stopped and stood panting. “Well, Jesse James, where do we go now?” he asked.

“Gosh!” said Freddy. “I’m darned if I know!”