Freddy and the Flying Saucer Plans by Walter R. Brooks Read Free Book Online Page A

home. Once away from the town, he turned right on a dirt road that led to Otesaraga Lake.
    â€œI hope you know where you’re going, Freddy,” said the horse. “We just passed two carloads of those spies—they’re probably coming back to pick up Uncle Ben’s trail. If you want to let ’em steal those plans—”
    â€œIf I want ’em to steal the plans,” Freddy said, “we’ve got first to draw the whole mob away from Uncle Ben. Then when they’re all chasing me, we’ve got to somehow let one of ’em steal them. That will take some figuring.”
    â€œWhy not hold an auction,” said Cy. “Golly, some of those governments would pay a couple million dollars for saucer plans, I reckon. And would you be loaded! Steam yachts and private airplanes and—Why, you could buy a ranch in Texas.”
    â€œCan’t be done that way,” said the pig. “I wouldn’t sell even a spy false plans for money.”
    â€œYou’ll let him steal ’em,” said Cy. “Oh, sure, there’s a difference. One way you make money out of being patriotic, and the other way you’re just patriotic, period. And what good is that? Sell the false plans, and you take money from the enemy. That’s patriotic, isn’t it?”
    â€œKind of hard to tell where patriotism stops and dishonesty begins,” said the pig. “Besides, how could we hold an auction? There’d just be another free-for-all fight with us in the middle of it. No, we’ve got to hide from the cops and then let just one spy trail us and steal this cylinder. And it’s got to look good. If we make it too easy he may suspect that these plans are fakes. Then we’ll be in the soup for keeps.”
    Indeed, Freddy didn’t have any plan. As he rode along he was trying desperately to think of one. By noon he had ridden up around the east end of the lake and back along the south shore, past the estate of his friend, Mr. Camphor. He would have liked to stop in to see Mr. Camphor, but he knew that by this time Uncle Ben had given the alarm and the police would be looking for him. And if the police came, the spies would come too, and they’d be on Mr. Camphor like a swarm of bees. “It’s like having the mumps,” Freddy said. “You can’t go near your friends for fear of their catching it too.”
    He found out soon enough that the police were looking for him. They’d turned up a stony dirt road that wound up into the hills, northwest of the Bean farm, and were perhaps a mile up it when behind them they heard the wail of a siren. Looking back, Freddy saw a car turning off the main road to follow them. “State cop,” he said. “Darn it, he mustn’t catch us. This is no time to get thrown in jail.”
    A couple of hundred yards up the hill the road curved and ended in the barnyard of a small farmhouse. All around were open fields. “It’s the house for us,” said Freddy. “There’s no car around so I guess there isn’t anybody home, and the front door is open. Come on, Cy. I can be the man of the house, and maybe you can get down cellar and hide.” And glancing round to see that the curve of the road hid them from the trooper, he reined Cy through the barnyard and right into the front door.
    They were in a hall so narrow that Freddy had to slide off over Cy’s tail. There were overalls and a battered hat hanging on pegs; Freddy hung up his own hat, pulled the house owner’s hat well down over his eyes and slid into the overalls. But Cy had found the cellar stairs and backed away from them. “I’m not going down there—not even to save you from the headsman’s axe, Freddy,” he said firmly.
    Freddy didn’t argue. “Up the front stairs, then,” he said. “They’re solid, and no cop would look for a horse upstairs.”
    So as Cy went clumping up to