Mr. Popper's Penguins (3 page)

“Mamma! Papa!” called Bill. “Come see what Captain Cook has done.”

Captain Cook had done it all right. He had discovered the bowl of goldfish on the dining-room window sill. By the time Mrs. Popper reached over to lift him away, he had already swallowed the last of the goldfish.

“Bad, bad penguin!” reproved Mrs. Popper, glaring down at Captain Cook.

Captain Cook squatted guiltily on the carpet and tried to make himself look small.

“He knows he’s done wrong,” said Mr. Popper. “Isn’t he smart?”

“Maybe we can train him,” said Mrs. Popper. “Bad, naughty Captain,” she said to the penguin in a loud voice. “Bad, to eat the goldfish.” And she spanked him on his round black head.

Before she could do that again, Captain Cook hastily waddled out to the kitchen.

There the Poppers found him trying to hide in the still opened refrigerator. He was squatting under the ice-cube coils, under which he could barely squeeze, sitting down. His round, white-circled eyes looked out at them mysteriously from the dimness of the inside of the box.

“I think that’s about the right temperature for him, at that,” said Mr. Popper. “We could let him sleep there, at night.”

“But where will I put the food?” asked Mrs. Popper.

“Oh, I guess we can get another icebox for the food,” said Mr. Popper.

“Look,” said Janie. “He’s gone to sleep.”

Mr. Popper turned the cold control switch to its coldest so that Captain Cook could sleep more comfortably. Then he left the door ajar so that the penguin would have plenty of fresh air to breathe.

“Tomorrow I will have the icebox service department send a man out to bore some holes in the door, for air,” he said, “and then he can put a handle on the inside of the door so that Captain Cook can go in and out of his refrigerator, as he pleases.”

“Well, dear me, I never thought we would have a penguin for a pet,” said Mrs. Popper. “Still, he behaves pretty well, on the whole, and he is so nice and clean that perhaps he will be a good example to you and the children. And now, I declare, we must get busy. We haven’t done anything but watch that bird. Papa, will you just help me to set the beans on the table, please?”

“Just a minute,” answered Mr. Popper. “I just happened to think that Captain Cook will not feel right on the floor of that icebox. Penguins make their nests of pebbles and stones. So I will just take some ice cubes out of the tray and put them under him. That way he will be more comfortable.”

T
HE NEXT DAY
was quite eventful at 432 Proudfoot Avenue. First there was the service man and then the policeman and then the trouble about the license.

Captain Cook was in the children’s room, watching Janie and Bill put together a jigsaw puzzle on the floor. He was very good about not disturbing the pieces after Bill had spanked him for eating one. He did not hear the refrigerator service man come to the back door.

Mrs. Popper had gone marketing for canned shrimps for the penguin, so that Mr. Popper was alone in the kitchen to explain to the service man what he wanted done to the refrigerator.

The service man put his tool bag down on the kitchen floor, looked at the refrigerator, and then at Mr. Popper, who, to tell the truth, had not shaved yet and was not very tidy.

“Mister,” he said, “you don’t need no ventilating holes in that there door.”

“It’s my icebox, and I want some holes bored in the door,” said Mr. Popper.

They argued about it for quite a while. Mr. Popper knew that to get the service man to do what he wanted, all he had to do was to explain that he was going to keep a live penguin in the icebox, and that he wanted his pet to have plenty of fresh air, even though the door was closed all night. He felt a little stubborn about explaining, however. He didn’t want to discuss Captain Cook with this unsympathetic service man, who was already staring at Mr. Popper as if he thought Mr. Popper was not quite right in his head.

“Come on, do what I said,” said Mr. Popper. “I’m paying you for it.”

“With what?” asked the service man.

Mr. Popper gave him a five-dollar bill. It made him a little sad to think how many beans it would have bought for Mrs. Popper and the children.

The service man examined the bill carefully as if he didn’t trust Mr. Popper too much. But at last he put it in his pocket, took a drill from his tool bag, and made five small holes in a neat pattern on the refrigerator door.

“Now,” said Mr. Popper, “don’t get up. Wait a minute. There is one more thing.”

“Now what?” said the service man. “I suppose now you want me to take the door off its hinges to let in a little more air. Or do you want me to make a radio set out of your icebox?”

“Don’t get funny,” said Mr. Popper indignantly. “That is no way to talk. Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing. I mean, having you do. I want you to fix an extra handle on the inside of that box so it can be opened from the inside of the box.”

“That,” said the service man, “is a fine idea. You want an extra handle on the inside. Sure, sure.” He picked up his tool bag.

“Aren’t you going to do it for me?” asked Mr. Popper.

“Oh, sure, sure,” said the service man, edging toward the back door.

Mr. Popper saw that for all his words of agreement, the service man had no intention of putting on an inside handle.

“I thought you were a service man,” he said.

“I am. That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said yet.”

“You’re a fine kind of service man if you don’t even know how to put an extra handle on the inside of an icebox door.”

“Oh, I don’t, don’t I? Don’t think I don’t know how. As far as that goes, I’ve even got a spare handle in my tool bag, and plenty of screws. You needn’t think I don’t know how to do it, if I wanted to.”

Mr. Popper silently reached into his pocket and gave the service man his last five-dollar bill. He was pretty sure that Mrs. Popper would be annoyed at him for spending all that money, but it could not be helped.

“Mister,” said the service man, “you win. I’ll fix your extra handle. And while I am doing it, you sit down on that chair over there facing me, where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Fair enough,” said Mr. Popper, sitting down.

The service man was still on the floor, putting in the final screws that held the new handle in place, when the penguin came out to the kitchen on his silent pink feet.

Surprised at seeing a strange man sitting on the floor, Captain Cook quietly walked over and began to peck him curiously. But the service man was even more surprised than Captain Cook.

“
Ork,
” said the penguin. Or perhaps it was the service man. Mr. Popper was not sure just what had happened when he picked up himself and his chair a moment later. There had been a shower of flying tools, a violent slamming of the door, and the service man was gone.

These sudden noises, of course, brought the children running. Mr. Popper showed them how the refrigerator was now all remodeled for the penguin. He showed Captain Cook, too, by shutting him inside it. The penguin at once noticed the shiny new inside handle and bit it with his usual curiosity. The door opened, and Captain Cook jumped out.

Mr. Popper promptly put Captain Cook back inside and shut the door again, to be sure that the penguin learned his lesson. Before long, Captain Cook became quite skillful at getting out and was ready to be taught how to get inside when the door was shut.

By the time the policeman came to the back door, Captain Cook was going in and out the refrigerator as easily as if he had lived in one all his life.

T
HE CHILDREN WERE THE
first to notice the policeman.

“Look, Papa,” said Bill. “There’s a policeman at the back door. Is he going to arrest you?”

“
Gook,
” said Captain Cook, walking with dignity to the door, and trying to poke his beak through the screen.

“Is this 432 Proudfoot Avenue?”

“It is,” answered Mr. Popper.

“Well, I guess this is the place all right,” said the policeman, and pointed to Captain Cook. “Is that thing yours?”

“Yes, it is,” said Mr. Popper, proudly.

“And what do you do for a living?” asked the policeman sternly.

“Papa is an artist,” said Janie.

“He’s always getting paint and calcimine all over his clothes,” said Bill.

“I’m a house painter, a decorator,” said Mr. Popper. “Won’t you come in?”

“I won’t,” said the policeman, “unless I have to.”

“Ha, ha!” said Bill. “The policeman is afraid of Captain Cook.”

“
Gaw!
” said the penguin, opening his red beak wide, as if he wanted to laugh at the policeman.

“Can it talk?” asked the policeman. “What is it — a giant parrot?”

“It’s a penguin,” said Janie. “We keep it for a pet.”

“Well, if it’s only a bird ...” said the policeman, lifting his cap to scratch his head in a puzzled sort of way. “From the way that fellow with a tool bag yelled at me outside, I thought there was a lion loose in here.”

“Mamma says Papa’s hair looks like a lion’s sometimes,” said Bill.

“Keep still, Bill,” said Janie. “The policeman doesn’t care how Papa’s hair looks.”

The policeman now scratched his chin. “If it’s only a bird, I suppose it will be O. K. if you keep him in a cage.”

“We keep him in the icebox,” said Bill.

“You can put it in the icebox, for all I care,” said the policeman. “What kind of a bird did you say it was?”

“A penguin,” answered Mr. Popper. “And by the way, I might want to take him walking with me. Would it be all right, if I kept him on a leash?”

“I tell you,” said the policeman, “honestly I don’t know what the municipal ordinance about penguins is, with or without a leash, on the public streets. I’ll ask my sergeant.”

“Maybe I ought to get a license for him,” suggested Mr. Popper.

“It’s certainly big enough for a license,” said the policeman. “I tell you what to do. You call up the City Hall and ask them what the ruling about penguins is. And good luck to you, Popper. He’s kind of a cute little fellow, at that. Looks almost human. Good day to you, Popper, and good day to you, Mr. Penguin.”

When Mr. Popper telephoned the City Hall to see about a license for Captain Cook, the penguin did his best to disconnect the telephone by biting the green cord. Perhaps he thought it was some new kind of eel. But just then Mrs. Popper came back from market and opened a can of shrimps, so that Mr. Popper was soon left alone at the telephone.

Even so, he found it was not so easy to learn whether or not he must get a license for his strange pet. Every time he would explain what he wanted, he would be told to wait a minute, and much later a new voice would ask him what he wanted. This went on for considerable time. At last a new voice seemed to take a little interest in the case. Pleased with this friendly voice, Mr. Popper began again to tell about Captain Cook.

“Is he an army captain, a police captain, or a navy captain?”

“He is not,” said Mr. Popper. “He’s a penguin.”

“Will you repeat that, please?” said the voice.

Mr. Popper repeated it. The voice suggested that perhaps he had better spell it.

“P-e-n-g-u-i-n,” said Mr. Popper. “Penguin.”

“Oh!” said the voice. “You mean that Captain Cook’s first name is Benjamin?”

“Not Benjamin. Penguin. It’s a bird,” said Mr. Popper.

“Do you mean,” said the phone in his ear, “that Captain Cook wishes a license to shoot birds? I am sorry. The bird-hunting season does not open until November. And please try to speak a little more distinctly, Mr. — Topper, did you say your name is?”

“My name is Popper, not Topper,” shouted Mr. Popper.

“Yes, Mr. Potter. Now I can hear you quite clearly.”

“Then listen,” roared Mr. Popper, now completely outraged. “If you folks at the City Hall don’t even know what penguins are, I guess you haven’t any rule saying they have to be licensed. I will do without a license for Captain Cook.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Popwell. Our own Mr. Treadbottom of the Bureau of Navigation of Lakes, Rivers, Ponds, and Streams, has just come in. I will let you speak to him personally. Perhaps he knows this Benjamin Cook of yours.”

In a moment a new voice was speaking to Mr. Popper. “Good morning. This is the Automobile License Bureau. Did you have this same car last year, and if so, what was the license number?”

Mr. Popper had been switched over to the County Building.

He decided to hang up.