Freddy and Simon the Dictator Read Free Page B

rest had gone. But he’s living quietly in Tushville. I’ve seen him once or twice at the movies in Centerboro. He walks over. Has a private entrance somewhere under the stage, he told me, so he doesn’t have to pay admission.”
    â€œI don’t see how anybody could stir up trouble for Mr. Bean among the animals,” said the cat. “Witherspoon, yes; he’s stingy. They say he won’t even let his barn cat have table scraps.”
    â€œThere aren’t any, that’s why,” said Freddy. “Not after he and his wife get through. You know his horse, Jerry, told me that often for dinner, he and his wife divide a fried egg, and then give the cat the shell to lick.
    â€œBut as far as stirring up trouble for Mr. Bean, it wouldn’t be hard. By now, Mrs. 6 has peddled that recipe for stewed rabbit all over the farm, and ninety per cent of the rabbits believe that the Beans had old 6 for supper. Although all of ’em know that he ran away because he couldn’t stand his wife’s nagging, and wanted peace and quiet. Besides which, he’d have been tougher’n an old boot.”
    â€œWe’ve got to stop this thing before it goes too far,” said Jinx. “Let’s get some of the old crowd together and bust up their next meeting, hey?”
    â€œAnd suppose some rabbit gets a black eye. Can’t you hear them all hollering cruelty again? No, this has to be handled carefully.” Freddy suddenly yawned uncontrollably. “All this thinking,” he said—“takes it out of me. Must get my rest or I’ll be no good in the morning.”
    â€œYou sure aren’t much good tonight,” said Jinx. “Haven’t you any ideas at all?”
    Freddy took off the morning coat and hung it on a hanger. “What have I been passing out to you for the last hour?” he demanded. “You can’t recognize an idea when you see one. Look, cat; who are the enemies of the Bean farm? First there’s Herb Garble, and his sister, Mrs. Underdunk. Then there’s Mr. Anderson, the real estate man. And then Simon and his gang of rats. They’ve all tried, singly or working together, to get the farm away from the Beans. But I think Garble is the worst. He doesn’t just want the farm; he hates us; he’d like to burn us at the stake or boil us in oil or something. Anderson doesn’t hate us; he’d just like to do the Beans out of the farm. As for the rats—well, they’re just rats. Anyway, all but one of ’em are in Montana.”
    â€œYou think Garble’s behind this, then,” said Jinx.
    â€œHe’s the likeliest one. And remember, he owns the Big Woods—bought ’em from Mr. Margarine.” Freddy got a clean nightshirt out of a drawer and pulled it on over his head. “So even though that wasn’t Garble’s voice tonight, he’s the one we ought to check on first.” He pulled back the covers and got into bed. “Well, good-night, Jinx. Want to stay? Curl up in the armchair.”
    â€œWith all those broken springs poking up into me? Thanks,” said the cat. “I’d rather curl up on a hot griddle. See you in the morning, pig.”
    But Freddy was already asleep.

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.
    â€œDear, dear,” said the robin, “I don’t like the sound of that.”
    â€œNeither do I,” Freddy said, “and I think you’d