Freddy the Pied Piper by Walter R. Brooks Page B

happened, they drove around to the pet shop.
    On the way home, Leo sat in the back seat between Mrs. Church and Jinx, and Freddy sat in front beside Riley. The thirteen stray cats were tucked in wherever there was room. Some of the dyed chickadees, whom Freddy had released from their cages before leaving the shop, flew along beside them for a mile or two, diving and turning somersaults in the air, and putting on an acrobatic show for them. In the back seat, as the car whirred along up the snowy road, Mrs. Church listened with interest to the story of Leo’s adventures. Freddy tried to talk to Riley, but the chauffeur was unaccountably grumpy; he answered with nods and grunts, and refused to be drawn into conversation until Freddy asked him right out what was the matter.
    Some of the chickadees flew along putting on an acrobatic show for them.
    Riley screwed his face up into an expression of deep gloom.“Look,” he said; “I’m hired to do what Mrs. Church wants me to do. I ain’t kicking; we get along fine. If she says: ‘Drive to the moon’—O K, we drive to the moon. But there’s some things she hadn’t ought to ask.”
    â€œYou mean like driving Leo and Jinx and me?” Freddy asked. “You mean you don’t like having animals in the car?”
    â€œNo, no; you know I don’t mean that,” Riley said. “It’s these cats.”
    â€œYou mean there are too many of them in the car?”
    â€œThere’s either too many or too few, according to how you look at it. There’s thirteen, ain’t there? Well, that’s bad luck.”
    â€œOh,” said Freddy, “I see. You mean you’re superstitious about it. Well, but look here; there’s fourteen, if you count Jinx.”
    â€œYeah. Just the same there’s thirteen, if you don’t count Jinx.”
    â€œThat doesn’t—excuse me, Riley, but that doesn’t make sense to me. My goodness, you can’t help being superstitious about the number thirteen, but you don’t have to count everything in thirteens, do you? I mean, if you go buy a dozen cookies, and carry them home in a paper bag, do you figure that’s thirteen things you’re carrying—twelve cookies and one bag?”
    â€œGosh, I never thought of that,” said Riley. “Well, I suppose I could eat one of the cookies.”
    â€œYou’d be carrying it just the same—inside you,” said Freddy. “You can’t beat it that way.”
    Freddy knew that you can’t stop people being superstitious by telling them how foolish they are. They know they’re foolish all right. They say so themselves. “I know it’s foolish,” they say, “but I think it’s bad luck to spill the salt.” Freddy knew this because he was superstitious about some things himself—only not about the number thirteen. But he tried to argue with Riley.
    Everybody in the car got into the argument finally, and it went on a long time. Each one apparently had a pet superstition which he took seriously, while making fun of everybody else’s. One of the cats told about a man he used to live with who thought it was such bad luck if he got his shirt, or even one of his socks on wrong side out when he was dressing, that he would put his pajamas on and go back to bed again in order to get up again and start the day right.
    â€œThe trouble with believing that certain things bring bad luck,” Mrs. Church said, “is, not that they really do bring it, but that you believe they do. In believing it, you sort of prepare the way for bad luck. It’s like riding a bicycle—if you expect to fall off, pretty soon you do. But if you just go ahead and ride, without thinking much about it, you don’t have any trouble.”
    â€œYeah?” said Riley. “How about the other day when you made me park in front of the Methodist Church?”
    â€œThat proves