The Mouse and the Motorcycle - Beverly Cleary [10]
Ralph put on a burst of speed and shot under the bed.
“Where?” asked the boy’s father, coming in from Room 216.
“Under the bed.”
“I’ll look, Mom,” said the boy, jumping out of bed.
Keith’s face appeared under the lifted edge of the bedspread, where Ralph sat trembling on the motorcycle. The boy held out his hand and beckoned. Ralph understood. He dismounted and ran up the boy’s arm inside the sleeve of his pajamas until he came to the crook of his elbow. There he waited, shivering, to see what would happen next. Down at the end of the sleeve he could see the boy’s fingers close around the motorcycle. Then he felt himself being lifted as the boy rose from his hands and knees.
“It’s just my motorcycle,” Keith said.
“Yes! That’s it,” agreed his mother. “The door opened and the mouse rode in—”
The boy’s father began to laugh. “You are still dreaming.”
“But I’m positive—” insisted the boy’s mother.
“That you saw a mouse on a little red motorcycle,” finished the boy’s father, and laughed even harder.
“You make it sound so ridiculous,” objected the mother.
“Well?” The father snorted with laughter.
“Well, perhaps I was dreaming,” admitted the mother reluctantly, “but I know I saw a mouse. I’m positive and I am going to report it to the management. I knew the minute we moved into this spooky old place that it had mice.”
Now I’ve done it, thought Ralph inside the pajama sleeve.
6
A Peanut Butter Sandwich
“I told you to be careful,” scolded Keith, when his parents had gone to dress and Ralph had crawled down his arm into his hand.
“It wasn’t my fault the door blew shut.” Ralph jumped from the hand to the bedspread. Though Keith was a friendly boy, even a generous one, Ralph still did not like the feel of skin against his paws. It must be terrible to go through life without fur and such a nuisance, having to wear clothes that had to be washed and drip-dried. Ralph knew all about drip-drying. Many were the drops of water from shirts and slips that he had dodged going in and out of his mousehole.
“You didn’t have to stay out so long,” Keith pointed out as he began to dress.
“What’s the use of having a motorcycle if you can’t go tearing around staying out late?” Ralph asked reasonably.
“You don’t have a motorcycle,” said Keith. “I just let you use mine. And you better be careful. I like that motorcycle and I don’t want anything to happen to it.”
“I’ll take care of it,” promised Ralph, somewhat chastened. “I don’t want anything to happen to it either.”
“It’s going to be harder to get a chance to ride it now that my mother has seen you,” said Keith. “She’s a terribly good housekeeper and she’s sure to complain to the management.”
“Speaking of breakfast, you people are too tidy,” complained Ralph. “I’m not getting enough to eat around here. You don’t leave any crumbs.”
“I never thought of it,” said Keith. “What would you like to eat?”
Ralph was astounded. This was the first time in his life anyone had asked him what he would like to eat. It had always been a question of what he could get his paws on. “You mean I have a choice?” he asked, incredulous.
“Sure,” said the boy. “All I have to do is order it when we go down to breakfast and then bring you some.”
Ralph had to take time to think. After a diet of zwieback and graham crackers provided by little children, bits of candy and an occasional peanut or apple core left by medium-sized children, or a crust of toast and a dab of jam left by an adult who had ordered breakfast sent up from room service, the possibilities of choosing his own meal were almost too much.
“I know what I’d like,” Ralph said at last, “but I don’t know what you call it. Once some people who said they were almost out of money stayed in these rooms. They had four children, all of them hungry, and they couldn’t afford to go to the dining room so they got some bread and spread it with something brown out of a jar and put some more bread on top of that. They whispered all the time they were eating, because they didn’t want the maid or bellboy to know they were having