Читать книгу Freddy the Politician - Walter Rollin Brooks - Страница 4

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The animals had had a hard night, and when Mrs. Bean came down in the morning to get breakfast for Mr. Bean and the two boys they had adopted, Byram and Adoniram, they were still sound asleep.

Mrs. Bean was a short, plump little woman, with snapping black eyes and cheeks that really were like apples. You no more knew what she looked like without an apron than you knew what Mr. Bean looked like without his whiskers. The animals all loved her and she was very fond of them and was always fixing little extra surprises for their supper. And she even baked them a cake on their birthdays. Except for Mrs. Wogus, who didn’t like cake, she baked a birthday apple pie. Mrs. Wogus was one of the cows.

As soon as Jinx woke up he yawned, and then without stopping to wash his face he crawled under the stove and looked in the cigar box. “Well, my goodness,” he said, “I guess you’re all right.” For the bird was sitting up and preening his feathers. He was a handsome woodpecker with a red head and a black and white body.

“Thanks to you,” said the bird politely. “And would you mind telling me where I am?”

“Why, you’re in a cigar box under the stove in Mrs. Bean’s kitchen,” said Jinx.

“No, no, you misunderstand me,” said the woodpecker. “I want to know what part of the country I am in. You see, I was coming north to spend the summer in our old family home in Washington when I was caught in that windstorm, and I am afraid it has blown me a long way off my course.”

“I’ll say it has,” said the cat. “Why, you’re up in the middle of New York State.”

“New York State?” said the woodpecker. “Dear me, I was never very good at geography. Just where is New York State?”

“Hey, look,” said Jinx. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t know where New York State is?”

“I’m not trying to tell you, I am telling you,” said the woodpecker. “It’s not quite the same thing.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” said the cat, who was beginning to get confused. “But I must say—”

But just then Mrs. Bean bent down and looked under the stove.

“What’s going on under here?” she said. “Oh, it’s you, Jinx. And—my land, a woodpecker! Well, you’d better go on outside. It’s all right for you to entertain your friends in the house, but my kitchen’s no place for a woodpecker. You know how Mr. Bean feels about birds in the house. He don’t like ’em flying about. He’s afraid they’ll get in his whiskers. I dare say it’s unreasonable of him, but there it is. Come, outside, both of you.”

She held open the door and Jinx and the woodpecker went out, followed by the two dogs, who had waked up and had been listening with interest to the conversation.

“Do you really mean you don’t know where New York State is?” asked Robert, when they were in the barnyard and the woodpecker had flown up onto the trunk of a big elm and begun drilling a hole in the bark to see if he could get a little breakfast.

“Certainly I mean it,” he said. He gave a few taps with his bill, knocking off a bit of bark, then pulled out a small bug and ate it. “H’m,” he said, “very tender. Very tasty. In Washington, you see,” he went on, “we really can’t keep track of all the little unimportant places out on the edge of such a big country.”

“Oh, is that so!” said Jinx. “Seems to me you talk pretty big for a woodpecker. I suppose you’re somebody pretty important down in Washington. I suppose we ought to know who you are.”

“You may have seen my picture in the newspapers,” said the woodpecker. “It has been in several times. We are rather a famous family. We have had our home in a sycamore on the White House lawn for many generations. And the eldest son is always named after one of the presidents. The founder of our family was named Abraham. My grandfather, Woodrow, was quite famous. As an egg, he fell out of the nest. The President himself was passing beneath at the time and Woodrow fell into his pocket. He was carried into the White House and hatched out in the pocket the next day, where he was found by a servant and taken outdoors again. So that Woodrow was actually born in the White House. My own name,” he added, “is John Quincy.”

The dogs were rather awed at having such a distinguished visitor in the barnyard, and even Jinx was impressed. But he wasn’t going to show it. He shrugged his shoulders and gave a sort of nasty laugh and strolled off in the direction of the cow-barn, leaving the dogs to continue the conversation.

The three cows, Mrs. Wiggins, Mrs. Wogus, and Mrs. Wurzburger, were out having their breakfast in the back pasture. But Jinx went into the barn. In a far corner a strand of spider web was hanging down, and the cat pulled at it gently with one paw, for it was Mr. Webb’s doorbell. In a minute a small spider came hurrying down the strand and stopped just opposite Jinx’s ear. This was Mrs. Webb. She was a plump round little spider who rather prided herself on her resemblance to Mrs. Bean, and indeed there was a certain likeness in their plumpness and the way they bustled about, although they did not look much like each other in the face.

“Good morning, Jinx,” said the spider. “Webb’s off for his morning walk. Anything I can do?” She had a brisk, pleasant voice, though it was very small. Spiders are very talkative, but few people know it, for they have to get almost in your ear to make themselves heard, and they don’t like to do it much because they know it tickles.

“Just a matter of business,” said the cat. “Which way did he go?”

“The roof, I guess. Go right up.”

Mr. Webb, who was rather stout, liked to take regular exercise to keep his figure down. But in the early spring it was too wet underfoot to do much walking, so he usually took his walks on the roof of the cow-barn. Four times around the edge of the roof was a spider’s mile. Jinx found him sitting on the peak of the roof with four of his legs dangling over the barnyard.

There was nothing Mr. Webb liked to do better than talk about his banking experiences, and so for an hour or more he went on and on and Jinx listened attentively. But of course what the cat wanted to know was how to start a bank, and hearing all about the time the robber came into the bank and Mr. Webb bit him on the leg and made him run away, or about the terrible fight Mr. Webb had with the black caterpillars who started to eat up the paper money, wasn’t much good to him. So finally he said: “Yes, yes, that’s all very interesting, but how do you start a bank?”

“Start a bank?” said Mr. Webb. “Nothing easier. You just start it, that’s all. Then people bring you their money and you keep it safe for them. Then when they want to get some out, they write a check.”

“What’s that?” Jinx asked.

“Well,” said Mr. Webb, “suppose I have some money in your bank and I want to pay Robert forty cents I owe him. I don’t go and get the money and give it to him. I give him a check that says: ‘Jinx’s Bank. Pay to Robert, forty cents.’ And I sign it with my name. And he brings it to you and you give him the money.”

“I don’t believe any of the animals I know would let me keep their money for them,” said Jinx thoughtfully. “Even if they had any.”

“Well, frankly,” said Mr. Webb, “I don’t think they would either. Nobody doubts your honesty, Jinx. I don’t mean that. But you’re up to too many tricks. No, you’d have to have somebody else as president of the bank, somebody they’d feel was thoroughly reliable, like Mrs. Wiggins. Or somebody with a big name. Did I ever tell you about the time President Harding—”

“Yes, you did,” Jinx interrupted. “But that reminds me. Who do you suppose blew in last night? John Quincy Adams.”

“John Quincy—what?” exclaimed Mr. Webb. “Oh, come, Jinx, you don’t mean to tell me—”

“I do, though,” said Jinx. “That’s his name. Only he’s just a woodpecker.” And he told the spider about it.

Mr. Webb was much excited. “But good gracious, Jinx, he’s just the one to be president of your bank. Don’t you see? ‘Jinx’s Bank. President: John Quincy Adams.’ Why, every animal for miles around will want to have an account in that bank. Can’t you get him to stay and be president?”

“Gosh, that’s an idea,” said the cat. “Thanks, Webb. See you later.” And Jinx hurried off back to the barnyard, where quite a number of the animals had gathered to admire the distinguished visitor.

The distinguished visitor, however, had now climbed so far up among the leaves of the elm that he was invisible from the ground. They could hear the tap, tap of his strong beak, and an occasional “Delicious!” as he ate another bug.

“Hi, John Quincy!” shouted Jinx. “Come down here a minute. I’ve got a proposition to make to you.”

The woodpecker flew down and perched on a low limb. “Really, my friends,” he said, “I must apologize to you for knowing so little about your wonderful state. Your bugs are really marvelous.” He smacked his beak. “Such crispness! Such flavor—full, yet delicate! I am half tempted to stay here for a time if you will permit me, to feast on these delicacies.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Jinx. And then he told him about the bank, and that he wanted him to be president.

“It is a great honor,” said the woodpecker. “But I will be frank with you. I know very little about banking.”

“We don’t know anything about it, either,” said Jinx, “so I don’t see that that makes much difference.”

“Well,” said John Quincy, “you tempt me. I admit you tempt me. Washington can be very tiring. The balls, the parties, the political conferences, the diplomatic intrigues—one grows weary of the constant round of gaiety. I have often thought that I should like to spend a summer among the plain country people, sharing their simple pleasures. And perhaps—who knows?—my wide experience and deep knowledge of men and cities might be of some help to them too. Yes, I accept.”

“Good,” said Jinx. “Then come along and talk to Freddy with me. I have to see him anyway this morning about our election.”

“Who’s Freddy, if I may ask?” said the woodpecker.

“Freddy? Oh, he’s just—Freddy. He’s a detective and a poet and—oh, lots of things. He’ll have to be our secretary, because he’s the only animal on the farm that can read or write. He’s a pig.”

“A pig!” exclaimed John Quincy, and he laughed heartily. “Dear me, I am going to be rural and no mistake. A pig! Well, well!”