Walter R. Brooks, Freddy the Pilot (1952)

So the story is here that SOMEONE is trying to sabotage Mr. Boomschmidt's circus, by sending an airplane to shows to drop flour all over the audience and freak everyone out so they demand refunds.  That “someone” is one Watson P. Condiment, who wants to drive the circus out of business so that its star equestrienne, Mademoiselle Rose, will be forced by penury to marry him.  Naturally, Freddy himself decides to take to the skies to foil this plot.  And then in the end, Rose and Mr. Boomschmidt get married instead, so that's nice.

WOO BOY.  That plot summary does not even come close to describing the experience of reading this book.  So: what does this Condiment character do, exactly?  Well, he's a publisher.  What does he publish?  Comic books.  And holy shit does Walter R. Brooks HATE HATE HATE comic books.

“Comics!” Freddy interrupted.  “Baby stuff!  No self-respecting animal over two years old looks at that trash.  Oh, go away and quit bothering me.  Take your hollow head somewhere else.”

Realizing that he sounds like a douchebag, Freddy softens his stance:

“I beg your pardon, Sniffy.  I don't really mean that, of course.  It's just that I think these comics are foolish.  I don't see how anybody can look at them when there are so many books around that are more interesting.”

The main point of comparison made with comic books is this generic-ass-sounding Robin Hood book that Freddy reads, and lends out to make everyone realize how much better real books are than comics.

“Well, you see, Freddy,” Sniffy said, “maybe you're right about the comics.  That Robin Hood book you lent me—golly, that's some book!  Why, all those adventures and things, they might have happened.  Oh, the comics are kind of fun, but you know nothing like that ever really happened.

Uh huh.  You just have to want to think that there's an element of self-deprecating irony in this, given that, in addition to this silly thing about realism very obviously being a post-hoc justification for a preexisting animosity, need I point out that Brooks himself is writing a series of books about talking animals? But if there's any such, it sure wasn't apparent to me.  Still, GODDAMN, man:

Sniffy listened for a second.  “Sounds like guns,” he said.  “Maybe there's a battle.  Maybe the Martians have landed!”

“Oh, golly, you and your comics!” said Freddy.

HA HA YES MARTIANS THAT'S A SILLY IDEA!  I mean, to give you an idea, think how ridiculous it would be if there were a book in this series called Freddy and the Men from Mars!  Just imagine!

Seriously, this shit is unrelenting, and it really interferes with one's enjoyment of the book.  Freddy kind of comes across as a humorless, condescending prick, which is something I never hoped to have to say.

Even beyond that, though, I feel like the book would be a bid subpar.  The series feels like it's becoming kind of unmoored from its usual more or less grounded level of mimesis with the whole flying thing (and Mr. Bean buys Freddy a plane, just like that!).  There's this scene with a bunch of army brass at the farm wanting to see a bomb sight that the returning Uncle Ben had built, and it's just kind of...dumb, in a way the series hasn't traditionally been.  This, of course, is the last book before the science fiction stuff starts, so maybe it's unsurprising, but I mostly found it a bit blah.  Also, Freddy does what strikes me as a vaguely racist impression of a Spanish señiorita to trick Condiment (because “people who read comics will believe almost anything”—okay, Brooks, calm down).

Still, in the interest of positivity, there are few okay things.  Such as: 

“There are a couple of instructors over at the flying field,” he said.  “Jimmy Witherspoon has been taking lessons.  They let him fly solo after he had just eight hours of instruction.  I'm just as smart as Jimmy.”  

Jimmy the pilot!  Also: “Alligators are seldom very experienced in affairs of the heart.”  Fair enough!  Also, Bertram is even mentioned at one point (because of Uncle Ben's return), which MAN ALIVE.