Ralph S. Mouse - Beverly Cleary [1]
Above Ralph the clock began to grind and groan and strike, bong…bong, as if it had to summon strength for each stroke. Ralph dreaded the sound, even though it was the reason he lived under the clock. The noise terrified his little relatives, who thought the clock was out to get them. As long as they feared the clock, Ralph’s motorcycle was safe.
The car door slammed. Feet stomped on the porch. When Matt opened the door to let two people blow into the lobby, a blast of freezing air sent Ralph’s nest swirling around in bits. Never mind, thought Ralph, peeking out at two pair of boots, the kind known as waffle stompers, which had thick treads that held snow.
“Do you have a room for the night?” the owner of the larger boots asked the desk clerk.
“H-mm, let’s see,” murmured the clerk, who always behaved as if the hotel might be full even though he knew it was not.
Stop pretending, thought Ralph, who was tired of waiting.
“Well…” The desk clerk ended the suspense. “I can let you have Room 207. Just fill out this card, please.”
Ralph’s keen ears heard the scratch of a pen and the rattle of a key. He winced when the clerk banged the bell on the desk for Matt, even though Matt was standing right there, waiting to carry the guests’ bags.
“Never mind,” said one of the guests to Matt. “We can find our room.” The pair picked up their luggage and stepped into the elevator, leaving behind puddles of melted snow.
“Cheapskates,” muttered Matt. Guests at this hotel often insisted on carrying luggage to avoid tipping him.
After the elevator door closed, Ralph worried that the puddles might dry before he had the lobby to himself. Time dragged on. The man in the red vest who worked in the Jumping Frog Lounge came out, yawned, and remarked that he might as well close for the night. The television station went off the air. The desk clerk locked the front door and left. If any more guests arrived, they would have to ring the night bell. Matt began to turn out the lights.
At last! Ralph threw his leg over his motorcycle, adjusted the rubber band that held his crash helmet in place, and grasped his tail so that it would not become tangled in his spokes. Then, because as everyone knows, a toy motorcycle moves when someone makes a noise like a motorcycle, Ralph took a deep breath, went pb-b-b, b-b-b, and shot out from under the clock. Gradually he picked up speed and zoomed through a puddle. Wings of water fanned out from his wheels. It was a thrilling experience.
All of Ralph’s little brothers, sisters, and cousins, hoping Matt would not notice them in the dim light, popped out from their hiding places to watch. Of course, Ralph had to show off. He took deeper breaths and rode faster, making puddles splash higher and leaving tiny tire tracks on the dry linoleum. Matt, who was banking the fire for the night, laid down the poker to enjoy the sight.
Unfortunately, the little relatives were not satisfied. Not now. Once Ralph’s indoor relatives had been happy to have Ralph push them up and down the halls on his motorcycle, but this treat was not enough for his rowdy outdoor relatives. They wanted to ride the motorcycle by themselves, so now all the mice wanted to ride. They came running and jumping, across the threadbare carpet, to the linoleum, squealing, “I want a ride!” “Gimme a turn!” “Come on, Ralph, get off and let us use it!”
Ralph started to whiz around in a figure eight when his tires slipped and the motorcycle tipped. He lost control and landed in icy, dirty water.
The daring outdoor mice waded out to grab the motorcycle, but Ralph was quick. Dripping and shivering, he sprang back on the seat and rode off, pb-b-b, pb-b-b, avoiding clutching paws. If only he could make his relatives behave. “Go away. You’re too little,” said Ralph through