Freddy Plays Football by Walter R. Brooks Page A

coming down the road.
    As Freddy stepped to the side of the road he saw that Mr. Doty was bent over the wheel, staring fixedly straight ahead. He came on, without looking to one side or the other, and perhaps he really didn’t see the pig, for when the car was almost up to Freddy, it swerved and came straight at him. Freddy dove for the ditch and the car rattled by.
    When he had scrambled back up on to the road he saw that the car had stopped and Mr. Doty was getting out. “Hey!” he yelled. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    Mr. Doty came up. “Well, well; apologize to you, Freddy. ’Deed I do! That old steering wheel! Take your eyes off it for a minute and it starts off somewhere all by itself.” He shot a quick look at the pig. “Yes, sir,” he went on quickly, “steering wheels, I just don’t understand ’em. Chickens they go for, mostly. Never saw one go for a pig before. Well, well; hop in if you’re going to town.”
    Freddy thought he would be safer in the car than out, and got in. There was so much noise, when they started, that conversation was impossible. When they got to Centerboro, Freddy directed Mr. Doty to the jail, for he was going to call on his friend the sheriff. Mr. Doty refused to drive in, but stopped outside the high iron gates. “Churches, yes,” he said. “High schools, theatres, even sawmills—yes. But jails, no. Jails I can’t enjoy.”
    â€œHave you been in jail?” Freddy asked.
    Mr. Doty jumped slightly, then he said: “I’ve visited friends was staying in ’em. Poor fellows. Bolts on the windows and bars on the door. Or vice versa. Makes me sweat to think of ’em.” And indeed big drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead.
    â€œThis jail is different,” said Freddy. “The prisoners always hate to leave when their time is up.” He pointed to the sign over the gate:
    Centerboro Jail
    â€œA Home From Home”
    He waved to a group of the prisoners who were playing hopscotch on the lawn, and went in.
    The sheriff was in his office, shining up his big silver star with an old toothbrush. Freddy told him about Mr. Doty, and then asked if there was any way of finding out if Mr. Garble had had a long distance phone call from Collywobble, Indiana, about two weeks ago. “Sure,” said the sheriff, and he called up his niece, Nettie, who ran the telephone exchange. And Nettie said there never had been any such call.
    Well, that proved that Mr. Doty had made up his whole story, but as the sheriff pointed out, it still didn’t prove that he wasn’t Mrs. Bean’s brother. “And that’s the only thing that will stop them from giving him the money,” he said. “I dunno what you can do, Freddy, but you got to work fast. Of course, maybe Bean can’t raise the money; folks claim Doty’s share is around five thousand dollars and that’s pretty near as much as the whole farm is worth.”
    â€œWell, you know Mr. Bean,” Freddy said. “If he thinks he owes it, he’ll pay it, even if he has to sell the farm and go to the poorhouse.”
    The sheriff scratched his head. “Let me think,” he said, so Freddy let him. But at last he said: “I ain’t getting anywhere. Just giving myself a headache. I don’t do much thinking nowadays, and I guess it’s like any other game, you got to practice a lot to keep in trim. To be honest, Freddy,” he said in a burst of frankness, “I don’t believe I’ve had a new thought since 1912 when I decided to quit wearing a necktie. But if you have any thoughts, me and the boys will stand back of you. Just call on us.”
    Freddy decided he’d have to do any thinking that was done, so he started right in. He was thinking so hard that as he turned into Orchid Street he ran smack into a boy who was coming around fast in the other direction. Freddy was