The Mouse and the Motorcycle - Beverly Cleary [7]
“You have to make a noise,” the boy explained matter-of-factly. “These cars don’t go unless you make a noise.”
The answer was so obvious Ralph was disgusted with himself for not knowing without asking. He grasped the handgrips and, fearful lest his noise be too squeaky, managed a pb-pb-b-b-b. Sure enough, the motorcycle moved. It really and truly moved across the threadbare carpet. Ralph was so excited that he promptly forgot to make the noise. The motorcycle stopped. Ralph started it again. Pb-pb-b-b-b. This time he remembered to keep on making the noise. He sped off into a square of moonlight on the carpet and found a good threadbare spot without any bumps.
“Look out for your tail,” said the boy. “Don’t let it get caught in the spokes.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” said Ralph, causing the motorcycle to stop. He started it again and steered with one paw while he reached back with the other, caught up his tail, and held the tip safely against the handlebar. It was a glorious sensation, speeding around on the carpet, freely and noisily and, most of all, fast. Ralph discovered that if he made the noise fast, the motorcycle speeded up. If he slowed the sound, the motorcycle slowed down. He promptly speeded up and raced around in the rectangle of moonlight, where he made another discovery. When he ran out of breath, the momentum of the motorcycle carried him on until he could take another breath.
“Gee, you’re lucky,” whispered the boy.
In order to answer, Ralph had to stop. “I am?” It had never occurred to him that a mouse could be luckier than a boy.
“You sure are.” The boy spoke with feeling. “My mother would never let me ride a motorcycle. She would say I might break a leg or something silly like that.”
“Well, if you want to come right down to it,” said Ralph, “I don’t suppose my mother would be exactly crazy about the idea.” He began to have an uneasy feeling that he really should be getting back to the mousehole.
“Anyway,” said the boy gloomily, “it will be years and years before I’m old enough to ride a motorcycle, and then when I am old enough my mother won’t let me.”
Ralph really felt sorry for the boy, hampered as he was by his youth and his mother.
“Go on, ride it some more,” said the boy. “I like to watch.”
Pb-pb-b-b-b. Ralph started the motorcycle again and rode around in the moonlight once more, faster and faster, until he was dizzy from circling, dizzy with excitement, dizzy with the joy of speed. Never mind the danger, never mind what his mother thought. This was living. This was what he wanted to do. On and on and on.
“Lucky,” whispered the boy with envy in his voice.
Ralph did not answer. He did not want to stop.
5
Adventure in the Night
When Ralph had mastered riding the motorcycle on the threadbare carpet, he went bumping over the roses on the less worn parts under the dresser and the bedside table. That was fun, too.
“Hey,” whispered the boy. “Come on out where I can see you.”
Pb-pb-b-b-b. Ralph shot out into the moonlight, where he stopped, sitting jauntily on the motorcycle with one foot resting on the floor. “Say,” he said, “how about letting me take her out in the hall? You know, just for a little spin to see how fast she’ll go.”
“Promise you’ll bring it back?” asked Keith.
“Scout’s honor,” answered Ralph, who had picked up many expressions from children who had stayed in 215.
“OK, I’ll tell you what,” said Keith. “You can use it at night and I’ll use it in the daytime. I’ll leave the door open an inch so you can get in. That way you can ride it up and down the hall at night.”
“Can I really?” This was more than Ralph had hoped for. “Where do you want me to park it when I come in?” he asked.
“Someplace where the maid won’t step on it,” answered the boy.
“That’s easy. Under the bed. She practically never cleans under the bed.”
“Yes, I know,” agreed Keith. “I looked. There are a lot of dust mice back there.”
“Please—” Ralph was pained.
“Oh. Sorry,” said the boy. “That’s what my mother calls bunches of dusty fluff under the bed.”
“My mother doesn’t,