The Mouse and the Motorcycle - Beverly Cleary [12]
“Thanks a lot!” Ralph managed to say with his mouth watering. “Have fun.”
“See you tonight,” said Keith. “Have a good day’s sleep.”
Ralph’s mother could not help being impressed by the sight of that peanut butter sandwich. “Just like room service,” she marveled. “Why, it’s a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and it even has butter in it.”
“I told you he would bring it.” Ralph could not help boasting, even though his mouth was full.
After sharing his feast with his squeaky little brothers and sisters, all of whom had trouble with peanut butter sticking to their teeth, Ralph curled up on a heap of shredded Kleenex and took a good long nap. When he awoke refreshed, his first thought was of the motorcycle. He wondered if Keith really had remembered to leave it under the bed. He yawned and stretched and left by way of the knothole.
Room 215 was just as Ralph had last seen it. The bed had not been made and there were no fresh towels by the washbasin. Ralph ducked under the sheets and blankets that had tumbled off one side of the bed, and there in the dim light he caught the gleam of chromium exhaust pipes. Keith had trusted him after all! He walked across the carpet and took hold of the handgrips once more. They felt just right in his paws and he longed to be off, speeding around the threadbare spots on the carpet, but a promise was a promise. Keith had kept his promise about the peanut butter sandwich; Ralph would keep his about not riding the motorcycle in the daytime. He tried to satisfy himself by walking around the motorcycle in the dim light under the bed, admiring all over again the sleek design of the machine.
Ralph was lost in admiration and daydreams of speed and power when suddenly the door opened and the maid entered. It was too late to make a dash for the mousehole. The maid stripped the blankets and sheets from the beds, shedding unwelcome light on Ralph and the motorcycle. Her feet in white sneakers moved lightly as she gathered up the sheets and pillowcases and towels and dropped them with a soft plop beside the open door.
The next thing Ralph knew, he was hearing familiar and dreaded footsteps coming down the hall, steps he had learned to fear when he was a tiny mouse. It was the head housekeeper, the woman who was in charge of all the maids in the hotel. He recognized her steps and he recognized her shoes—stout, sensible black oxfords. Nothing was ever clean enough for the head housekeeper, and Ralph’s whole family lived in dread lest she discover their mousehole. Now he held his breath, hoping she would go on down the hall, but no, she stepped into Room 215.
“Good morning, Margery.” The housekeeper spoke crisply to the maid. “Be sure you clean 215 and 216 very thoroughly this morning. There has been a complaint from the guests. They suspect mice.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the maid.
“Look behind all the drawers,” continued the housekeeper, “and in the corners of the closets. Please report any evidence of mice. And be sure you vacuum under the beds. You have been getting careless lately.” With that she walked briskly down the hall.
“Old grouch,” muttered the maid, as she reached into the hall for something that produced a sound that struck terror into Ralph’s heart.
It was the clang of vacuum cleaner attachments banging together.
7
The Vacuum Cleaner
From his position under the bed Ralph watched the tank of the vacuum cleaner being dragged in from the hall and listened to the clash and clang of the attachments as the maid connected a long metal tube to the nozzle at the end of the hose and fastened a carpet-cleaning part to the end of the tube. He heard her humming to herself as she plugged in the deadly machine and began to