The Story of Freginald by Walter R. Brooks Page A

pointed a claw toward the other side of the street. And then, without explaining, he gulped down the rest of his soda and went out of the store.
    Freginald said: “Charge it to Mr. Boomschmidt” to the proprietor and followed his friend. Leo crossed the street and went straight to the door of Ye Elite Beauty Shoppe. Freginald hesitated a minute, then went in after him. Leo was already sitting in a chair in one of the booths with a white cloth around his neck as if he was going to have his hair cut, and a young lady with beautiful yellow hair was flourishing a comb over his head. Before Freginald could speak to his friend, another young lady came up and asked what she could do for him.
    â€œOh, he’s just waiting for me,” said Leo.
    â€œWouldn’t you like to have a manicure while you’re waiting?” asked the young lady. “Your friend will be some time. He’s having a permanent.”
    â€œWhy, I guess—” Freginald began.

    â€œSure, Fredg, have a manicure,” said Leo.
    And before he knew it Freginald was sitting opposite a third young lady at a little table with his forepaws in a small basin of water.
    Freginald didn’t like the manicure very much, particularly the filing, which set his teeth on edge. The young lady was quite a talker and she rattled on about the circus and how her young man was going to take her to that evening’s performance. “And I suppose we will see you, won’t we, Mr. Freginald? Do you really write all that lovely poetry for Mr. Boomschmidt? I have always thought that if I had the time I would like to write poetry. I expect I could, too. People always tell me what good letters I write. And I do write quite poetic descriptions, I think. Mrs. Wingitz—that’s our minister’s wife—says that good descriptive writing is the highest form of art. Do you think that is so?”
    Freginald tried to be polite and answer her, but she didn’t seem to expect any answers, for she went right on without waiting for them. So then he didn’t listen any more, but began to make up a poem:
    Some people talk in a telephone
    And some people talk in a hall;
    Some people talk in a whisper,
    And some people talk in a drawl;
    And some people talk-and-talk-and-talk-and-talk-and-talk
    And never say anything at all.
    He had got as far as this when a man came out of one of the booths toward the back of the shop. He was a tall, sinister-looking man with a long, curly, black mustache. When he saw Freginald he stopped short and looked at him very hard, and then he said: “Be you one of Mr. Boomschmidt’s animals?”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Freginald.
    â€œThought you must be,” said the man, showing his teeth in a smile that was meant to be kindly, but which was really rather terrifying. “Hain’t seen you before, hev I?”
    Freginald wondered why the man was trying to talk like a farmer. He had seen enough country people in his travels to know that this wasn’t farmer talk, although it was intended to sound like it.
    â€œI guess not,” he said.
    The man looked at Freginald for a minute, then he turned and went back into the booth, where he could be heard whispering to someone. After a little while he came out again. “Wa’al,” he said, “I must be gettin’ back to my farm.” He clapped Freginald on the back. “Drop in and see me if you get time after the show, for a doughnut and a glass of milk. My place is ’bout a quarter of a mile up Main Street and then turn left at the schoolhouse. Anybody’ll show you.”
    â€œThank you,” said Freginald, “but you didn’t tell me your name.”
    â€œDidn’t I? Well, so I didn’t. Well, well. My name, now? Well—” he stared out the window for a moment—“just ask for Ezra Hamburger. Good day, young bear.” And he went out.
    â€œI don’t believe that was his name at