The Mouse and the Motorcycle - Beverly Cleary [21]
When it was good and dark Ralph ventured through the knothole. He could hear Keith breathing deeply and he knew that he was asleep. Since he had no one to talk to, he found his little crash helmet where he had hidden it behind the curtain and, after he had adjusted the rubber band under his chin, he climbed up to the windowsill to look out into the world beyond the hotel and to dream about the lost motorcycle.
From his perch on the windowsill Ralph saw that the parking lot held more cars than usual. This meant that the motels back on the highway were full and travelers had followed the sign pointing to the Mountain View Inn. He could hear the holiday weekend activity in the halls, too—people walking up and down, luggage being set with a thump on the floor, keys rattling in locks. Gradually, as the night wore on, the hotel grew silent, more silent than usual for now even the second-floor mice were quiet. There was no scurrying, scrabbling, or squeaking inside the walls.
In the silence Keith tossed in his sleep and mumbled something that sounded like “motorcycle.” In a moment his mother slipped through the doorway, pulling her robe on over her nightgown. Ralph hid behind the curtain, peeping out just enough to see what was going to happen. She laid her hand on her son’s forehead and murmured, “Oh, dear.”
Almost at once she was joined by Keith’s father, who was tying the belt to his bathrobe. “What’s the trouble?” he asked.
“Keith has a fever,” answered the mother. “He’s burning up.”
Ralph was shocked. The boy really was sick. It was not too many peanuts or too much hiking. The boy was really and truly sick.
The father turned on the lamp on the bedside table and he too laid his hand on the boy’s forehead. Keith opened his eyes. “I’m so hot,” he mumbled. “I want a drink.”
His mother pulled back a blanket while the father brought a glass of water and held up his son’s head so he could drink part of it.
Ralph watched anxiously, but this time he was not selfishly concerned about room service. He was concerned about Keith, the boy who had saved him from a terrible fate in the wastebasket and who had trusted him with his motorcycle, the boy who had forgiven him when he had lost that motorcycle and who had brought food, not only for Ralph, but for his whole family.
“We had better give him an aspirin to bring down his temperature,” said Mrs. Gridley.
Mr. Gridley started toward Room 216, stopped, and snapped his fingers as if he had just remembered something. “I took the last one back in Rock Springs, Wyoming,” he said. “I had a headache from driving toward the sun all afternoon. I meant to buy some more when we stopped, but I didn’t think of it again until now.”
“I should have thought of it myself,” said Mrs. Gridley. “I knew we were almost out.”
“Never mind. I’ll get some.” Mr. Gridley picked up the telephone, listened, shook it, listened again, and said, “That’s peculiar. The line seems to be dead.”
“They must disconnect the switchboard at night,” said the mother, “but surely there is someone on duty at the desk downstairs. Every hotel has a night clerk.”
“I’ll go find out,” said the father, and slipped out the door into the hall.
“I’m so hot,” mumbled Keith. “I’m so hot.”
His mother wrung out a washcloth in cold water and laid it on her son’s forehead. “You’ll feel better as soon as we get you an aspirin,” she whispered.
The minutes dragged by. What’s keeping him? thought Ralph. Why doesn’t he hurry? The old hotel snapped and creaked. Keith rolled and tossed, trying to find a cool spot on the pillow, and his mother wrung out the washcloth in more cold water.
“When’s Dad coming?” asked Keith, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed.
“In a minute,” soothed his mother. “He’ll be here in a minute.”
I wish he would hurry, thought Ralph.
Still the minutes dragged. Finally footsteps were heard in the hall and Mr. Gridley returned to Room 215.
“He’s here with the aspirin,