Runaway Ralph - Beverly Cleary [3]
Night was fading and the chirp of a bird out in the pines told Ralph that the hotel was about to come to life. The night clerk soon would awaken and close his book, and the cook soon would be rattling pans in the kitchen.
A cousin, braver than most, came running down the hall where Ralph was wearily pushing the motorcycle. “You aren’t fair,” he scolded. “You’ve given him three rides and some of the others two and me only one.”
Ralph stopped in his tracks. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me some of you have had more than one ride?”
“Yes,” was the answer. “And I’m going to tell Uncle Lester on you. Then you’ll really catch it.”
Ralph was too angry to squeak. He snatched his helmet from the head of his passenger, tipped him off onto the floor, and mounted his motorcycle while taking a deep breath. Pb-pb-b-b-b. Ralph shot down the hall into the lobby.
The first pale rays of morning sun filtered through the pines, which now were filled with joyously chirping birds. The night clerk stirred. All the little mice looked frightened and scuttled toward the stairs and the safety of their nests of shredded Kleenex. The night clerk sat up, yawned, stretched, and scratched his chest, giving Ralph just enough time to garage his motorcycle in the dark corner under the television set before the last shadow of night faded from the old hotel.
Ready to rest and filled with bitter thoughts, Ralph set his crash helmet on the dusty carpet and sat down with his back resting against the front wheel of his motorcycle. The grown-up mice should not make him use his beautiful motorcycle as a toy to amuse a lot of squirmy, ungrateful little relatives, who were growing up and soon would insist on riding by themselves. And Uncle Lester would insist that Ralph let them. Well, he wouldn’t. Never again would he use the motorcycle as a toy. He did not care what Uncle Lester or anyone said.
Ralph did not want to grow up to be a crumb-scrounging mouse like Uncle Lester. He did not want to settle down in a nest of shredded Kleenex behind the baseboard of the linen room. He wanted a life of speed and danger and excitement. He wanted to be free—free to do as he pleased and go when he pleased on his shiny red motorcycle.
The clock struck six, and in the distance Ralph heard the notes of the distant bugle, this time lively notes that seemed a summons to excitement and adventure and, now that he knew where the notes came from, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Before the notes had died away, Ralph heard the laughter and shouts of medium-sized boys and girls who must be about the age of Keith, the boy who had understood mice and who had given Ralph the motorcycle.
The rousing notes of the bugle and the laughter and shouting increased the feeling of rebellion within Ralph. As the last strains of the bugle call hovered in the clear mountain air, Ralph made up his mind. He knew now what he was going to do. He was going to run away.
2
The Open Road
Too excited to hide under the grandfather clock where he could watch television, Ralph spent the day beside his motorcycle under the television set watching life in the lobby and waiting for night to come. Luggage was set down with a thump. Guests complained that there were not enough towels in their rooms, and when the guests had gone, the desk clerk said to Matt, “What do they think this is? The Waldorf?”
Ralph listened as the manager of the hotel spoke sharply to the housekeeper about the cigarette ashes on the carpet. The housekeeper spoke even more sharply to the maid, who ran the vacuum cleaner so carelessly that Ralph was not even frightened. He was too busy thinking of the night