Freddy and the Flying Saucer Plans by Walter R. Brooks

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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œOh, sure,” said Freddy.
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œHey!” said the sergeant. “None of that! You sit down!”
    â€œAw, 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