Читать книгу Freddy and the Bean Home News - Walter Rollin Brooks - Страница 4

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So Charles didn’t get to the meeting in the barn that night, and I guess it was a good thing for his reputation as an orator, for you can’t make much of a speech if you haven’t got the use of your nose. But all the animals agreed that something was lacking. For though they always complained that he talked too long, and though they never could remember afterwards anything he had said, they had come to feel that no meeting was complete without one of Charles’ highflown orations.

The meeting was called for half past seven, and when Freddy climbed into the old phaeton and rapped on the dashboard for order, the barn was crowded to the doors.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Freddy; “friends and fellow animals—yes, and fellow insects, for I see our good neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Webb, have spun front row seats for themselves here in the whip socket. And Randolph is here too.” And he waved to a beetle who was sitting on a beam that ran along the side wall.

Randolph reared up and attempted to wave his forelegs at Freddy, but immediately fell over on his back and lay there struggling until Jinx flipped him right side up with his paw.

“Yes,” said Freddy, “I am glad to see so many of you here, and so many of the woods animals, too. For the matter which has called us together is one which concerns us all. You all know of the scrap metal drive which was held in Centerboro last year. You know that Mr. Bean collected, on his farm alone, three tons of old iron, which was shipped off to make guns and ships to help our fighting men win the war. You probably know, too, that another drive is being held this year, to get out all the scrap metal that was missed on the last one. And you have probably heard of the prize which is being offered to the person who brings in the most scrap.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we would like that prize to go to the Bean farm.”

“What’s the prize?” shouted someone.

“The prize,” said Freddy, “is a blue pennant, with a white S on it for Scrap. To which the sheriff has generously added a box of cigars.”

“Hooray for the sheriff!” shouted Bill, the goat.

“I don’t know what you’re hoorayin’ about, goat,” said Jinx. “You haven’t taken up cigar smoking at your age, have you?”

“I can eat ’em, can’t I?” said Bill. “There’s nothing tastier to finish off a nice dinner of thistles than a good strong cigar.”

“The cigars will be for Mr. Bean to smoke,” said Freddy. “If he wins them. And we must all see that he does win them. But it won’t be so easy. Mr. Bean has already cleaned up all the old iron he could find. Some of the other farmers, who didn’t work very hard at it on the first drive, have a lot of stuff still lying around. That is why this meeting was called. We animals get around in places where Mr. Bean never goes. Probably each one of us knows half a dozen places where there are pieces of iron—”

“I know where there’s an old stove,” said Peter, the bear, in his gruff voice. “Back of that deserted house, up in the woods.”

“There’s a couple of old horseshoes under this floor,” piped up Eeny, one of the mice.

“Of course,” said Freddy. “All we’ve got to do is get the stuff together. Now I don’t know that there is much more to say. I know that everybody here will work hard, because everybody here will be working for his country, Mr. Bean, and for himself. I might say that Mr. Bean has generously announced that when he sells the scrap, each animal will be paid for whatever he has brought in. And I may add that, when this money is paid, if any of you wish to put some of it away in a safe place against a rainy day, the First Animal Bank, of which I am president, will be only too glad to accommodate you.”

“Does all the iron we collect have to come just off this farm?” asked Mrs. Wiggins.

“Yes,” said Freddy. “Or from up in the woods, where nobody else would be likely to claim it. Of course, if you find some on somebody else’s property, and the owner says you can have it, you can bring it in here.”

“What I want to know,” said Bill, “is what’s it worth? Suppose I bring in ten pounds. How much’ll I get?”

“I don’t know exactly,” said Freddy. “But it will be a little less than half a cent a pound.”

Bill snorted. “Less than a nickel!” he said. “Rather stay at home and curl up with a good book.”

Freddy rapped sharply on the dashboard. “Perhaps I have not made myself clear,” he said. “If we can make a little money by bringing in this old iron, why that’s fine. But we’re not doing it to make money. We’re doing it because it’s our patriotic duty, and if we didn’t get a cent for it, we’d do it just the same. Of course, we’d like to have our own farm win the prize, but that’s not so important either. All we want is to get that scrap out.”

The animals gave a cheer at this, and Freddy continued. “As you know, our distinguished friend, that superb orator, Charles, was to have delivered a patriotic speech tonight. But though I am sorry to announce that illness has prevented his fulfilling the engagement, I am in a way glad that there is to be no patriotic speech. This is no time for patriotic speeches; it is a time for us to get to work. We’ve got a little over two months, until the first of June, and that isn’t any too long for what we have to do. So I suggest that as we have an hour or so of daylight left, we wind up this meeting by singing The Star Spangled Banner, and then get to work right now.”

Up in the house, Mr. and Mrs. Bean heard the singing. Mr. Bean smiled, but he shook his head doubtfully. “Ought to be in bed,” he said, “instead of sitting up singing half the night.”

“Now you leave them alone, Mr. B.,” Mrs. Bean replied. “It isn’t eight yet. And my land, you ought to be proud of ’em! No country can fail to win its wars when even the animals are patriotic!” And she stood up and sang the last of the national anthem with them. And pretty soon Mr. Bean stood up and sang too.

The next morning Charles felt a good deal better, but he still had a cold all right. He hopped out of his box at five o’clock and tried to crow, but his voice was so hoarse that he didn’t even wake up Jinx. He could hear Mr. Bean snoring away upstairs. Of course Mr. Bean knew that he had a cold, and wouldn’t expect him to crow that morning, but he was a little ashamed of the way he had acted, and he thought if he could manage to wake everybody up in spite of having a cold, he would feel better about it.

There was an iron frying pan hanging on the wall, and he hopped up on a chair where he could reach it and began hammering it with his beak. It rang as clear as an alarm bell. Jinx bounced out of his basket, and there was a thump upstairs and in a minute Mr. Bean came down into the kitchen. He had a candle in his hand, and he peered at Charles and then looked at the clock. “H’mph! Five o’clock. Right on the dot. But can’t ye crow?”

Charles showed him what his crow sounded like.

Mr. Bean nodded. “Guess your crow needs oilin’,” he said. He patted Charles on the head and went back upstairs.

Pretty soon Mrs. Bean came down and shook down the fire and put the coffeepot on, and then she put some eggs and bacon on, and then she mixed up some pancake batter and put the griddle on to heat. And then she thought a minute and went and got some doughnuts and an apple pie and some baking powder biscuits and put them on the table. She never liked Mr. Bean to get up from the table hungry.

Charles walked over to the outside door and tapped on it with his beak.

“You want to go out?” said Mrs. Bean. “Well, your cold’s certainly better; I guess it won’t hurt you. But hop up on this chair first and let me look at your throat.”

So Charles hopped up and opened his beak, and Mrs. Bean peered down his throat.

“H’m,” she said, “looks pretty good. But if I were you, I wouldn’t try to crow for a few days. You might strain your voice. I’ll have Mr. Bean hang that frying pan up outside somewhere, and you can wake us up by rapping on that.”

So she let Charles out, and the first animal he met in the barnyard was Alice, one of the ducks. “Why Charles,” she cried, “Emma and I were sorry to hear that you were ill. We missed you at the meeting last night. We always enjoy your speeches. So stimulating, we always think. But should you be out on such a raw day when you have a cold?”

Charles said grandly that it was nothing, nothing; just a touch of the grip. (He called it “a dudge of the grib.”)

“Dear me,” said Alice, “I do think you should be bundled up. Though I must say that you don’t look sick. With your fine ruddy color you’re the picture of health.” This of course was the rankest flattery, since a rooster’s face is covered with feathers and unless you pulled them all out you couldn’t tell what his complexion was like.

But Charles never examined compliments very carefully. When anyone paid him a compliment, he just said: “Do you really think so?”, and of course they said it over again, so that then he got two compliments instead of one. And sometimes, by continuing to ask questions about it, he could get the compliment repeated seven or eight times. They made him feel that he was quite a rooster.

He had intended to go back to the henhouse, for although when he was well Henrietta ordered him around a good deal, when he was sick she did everything she could to make him comfortable. But Alice’s compliments had made him feel so handsome and important that he decided to see if the other animals wouldn’t like to say a few admiring things.

Unfortunately, the first one he met was Mrs. Wiggins. Like most cows, Mrs. Wiggins always said exactly what she meant. She seemed quite shocked at Charles’ appearance. “Good land!” she exclaimed. “You do look terrible, Charles. You ought to be in bed.”

“But I—I’ve just got a little cold,” said Charles uncertainly, “I—I feel fine.”

“Well, you don’t look it,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “What on earth Henrietta’s thinking of to let you go out, I can’t imagine. You look awful.”

“Do-you really think so?” stammered Charles. The concern on Mrs. Wiggins’ broad face worried him. He did feel pretty awful, he thought. “Well,” he said, “maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. You go straight home and gargle.”

“I—I guess I’d better,” said Charles weakly. And he turned and walked unsteadily off towards the henhouse.