Free Freddy and the Flying Saucer Plans by Walter R. Brooks

smother him. What’ll I put—smothering and robbery?”
    Freddy said that sounded all right.
    â€œNow,” said the sheriff, “what room can I give you? We’re pretty full up. Having our biggest season yet. Considerin’ we don’t advertise in the papers—Judge Willey tells me ’twouldn’t be right to advertise a jail—but considerin’ we don’t, we’re doin’ a lot bigger business than some of these summer hotels up on the lake. Of course, our charges are low, and we don’t have near as many rules about behavior as they do. Having to dress for dinner and so on.
    â€œWe’ve got a nice bunch this season, too. All the old crowd are back—repeaters, we call ’em—and you’ll see some new faces too: old Mr. Drench, he’s a retired safecracker—took up passing bad checks as a hobby; and then there’s the Yeglett gang, four of ’em, racketeers from the city, nice gentlemanly boys but inclined to be a little noisy at night.”
    All the cells in the jail were named after famous criminals, train robbers like Jesse James, or old time highwaymen like Dick Turpin. The only single cell available was Fagin, but as that had no desk in it, and no private bath, the sheriff took Freddy up to a luxurious double room, now vacant, which had not yet been named. “Maybe you could name it after me,” Freddy suggested.
    â€œI don’t suppose you’ve got those plans on you, have you?” said the sheriff. “No, no; don’t tell me now. I’ll have to search you later—it’s my duty. But there’s no hurry. Now I wonder,” he said, looking under the counterpane, “if Scar-face put clean sheets on these beds. Yes, I guess so. But you’ll want an extra pillow. Half a minute and I’ll get it.” And he left the room.
    Freddy pulled the metal cylinder out from his pant leg and slid it under the mattress. He felt pretty sure that the sheriff, by going for a pillow, was giving him time to hide it. And indeed when he came back, the sheriff said: “Well, I’d better search you,” and he gave the pig a perfunctory patting all over. “No, you ain’t got it on you. Hid it outside, I expect. …” He went over to the foot of one of the old-fashioned brass beds and unscrewed the ball on top of one of the posts. “Did you know these legs were hollow? If you had that tube of plans on you, this’d be a first-class place to hide ’em. But of course you ain’t.” He put the ball back on.
    â€œWell,” he said, “I’ll get you some supper. And by the way, some of the boys did see you as you came through the hall, so I think you’d better keep your door locked. They’ve heard over the radio about your stealing the plans, and there’s been some pretty wild talk about what they’d like to do to you. They don’t like the idea of your selling to the Communists.”
    â€œNobody’s going to like it,” said Freddy, “but I’ve got to do it somehow. I’m not very happy about it.”
    He felt a little better about it a few hours later. He had had a big supper, and being tired from a long day in the saddle, was getting ready for bed, when there was a faint scratching on the door and a hoarse whisper said: “Hey, Freddy, lemme in.”
    There was a faint scratching on the door.
    He crept to the door. “Oh, dear,” he said to himself, “I wonder if they’re going to lynch me.” But listening, he could hear none of the rustlings and movements that a large crowd would have made.
    â€œWho—who is it?” he said with a quaver in his voice. The quaver made him mad and he stiffened his backbone and tried to make his tail curl up tight again—it always came uncurled when he was scared—and said in a firmer tone: “Who’s there?”
    â€œIt’s me, Freddy—Bloody