Ralph S. Mouse (2 page)

Ralph was hurt. “I am not spoiled, and I am not selfish,” he insisted, as he tried to drag his motorcycle away from all those clutching paws. In his heart, he did not feel selfish. He only wanted something that was his alone. A mouse so rarely had something he could call his own.

“You're greedy,” said a cheeky outdoor mouse. Then all the mice, down to the littlest one who was tangled in the fringe of the carpet, began to chant, “Ralph is greedy, Ralph is greedy!”

Ralph finally lost his temper and squeaked at the top of his voice, “Beat it, you rotten little rodents!”

“Try and make us.” The outdoor mice were defiant, but Ralph could tell they were not as brave as they pretended.

Shocked and hurt by such strong language, the little indoor mice fell silent. They looked at Ralph with such sad eyes that Ralph was ashamed. “You said bad words,” said one, his voice filled with reproach.

“I'm going to tell on you,” said another. “My mother wouldn't like you to call me—those words.”

Ralph felt terrible. “Aw, come on,” he said. “It's just that my motorcycle is wearing out. The tires are thin, and if they wear out, where am I going to get another pair?”

The little mice would not accept this excuse. “We've never had a motorcycle at all,” one of them said.

“I know, but—” began Ralph, not knowing how to finish. It was not his fault his young relatives did not have motorcycles. Still, maybe he had used language too strong for little ears. He was only trying to make his pack of pushing, shoving, grabbing relatives behave.

Matt must have understood Ralph's feelings, for he came to his rescue. “Shoo!” he said loud enough to frighten little mice but not loud enough to terrify them. The word sent them scrabbling back to their hiding places.

“Thanks,” said Ralph.

“Think nothing of it.” Matt gave the fire one last poke before he retired for the night. He left the rapidly drying puddles for Ralph, who took another turn through them. Although water still fanned out from his wheels, somehow the fun had gone out of riding for that night.

Wearily Ralph pushed his motorcycle back to the cave under the clock where it was safe. Even though he was wet and numb with cold, he lovingly wiped mud and paw prints from his chrome spokes with bits of shredded Kleenex. When he began to wipe his exhaust pipes, he discovered they wiggled, loosened by all those tugging paws. The rear wheel shock absorber was loose too.

When Ralph had wiped off all the mud and had polished his chrome, he rummaged through the remains of his nest for a bit of carpet fringe. Unfortunately, it turned out to be too thick for tying his exhaust pipes in place. He felt worse and worse as he began to groom his damp fur. His tires were so thin he no longer wanted to risk the wear of riding them on the rough surface of the carpet. His motorcycle was wearing out. None of his relatives liked him. They were going to tattle on him. In the morning, his mother would venture downstairs to lecture him on the evils of selfishness and bad language. She would also lecture him on his duty to set a good example for little mice.

Ralph pushed his nest together again. I'm a bad mouse, he thought, filled with gloom and guilt.
I
am a rotten rodent, not my relatives. As he climbed into his nest and curled up with his tail tight around his body, he wished he could leave the Mountain View Inn so he would never have to face them again. But how could a mouse leave in winter when there was snow on the ground and wind howled? He would freeze, starve, or be blown away. Or all three. Ralph shivered and pulled his tail more tightly around his body.

A
fter his strenuous night of riding through puddles, fending off his relatives, trying to repair his motorcycle, and rebuilding his nest, Ralph napped soundly. He was awakened by the angry voice of Mr. Minch, the hotel manager, speaking to Mrs. Bramble, Ryan's mother.

“Look at that floor,” Mr. Minch was saying. “Disgraceful!”

“It certainly needs a good cleaning,” agreed Mrs. Bramble.

“Where's Matt?” demanded Mr. Minch. “Keeping this lobby clean is his responsibility.”

Worried because his friend was in trouble, Ralph peeped out from under the clock and saw Matt, unaware of the manager's displeasure, enter the lobby. “Morning, Mrs. Bramble, Mr. Minch,” Matt said. “It's sure pretty outside with the sun shining on the snow and the sky so blue.”

Mr. Minch ignored this greeting. “Matt,” he said, and his voice was stern, “take a good look at this floor. Dried mud on the linoleum. Mouse droppings all over the place. It's a disgrace. And the whole lobby smells—well, mousey.”

That's funny, thought Ralph. I can't smell a thing.

Matt looked at the floor. “Well, I'll be jiggered,” he said. “How do you suppose that happened? It looked clean enough last night.”

Liar, thought Ralph with affection. He knew Matt would never say a bad word against mice.

“Never mind how it happened,” said Mr. Minch. “Exactly what do you plan to do about it?”

“Now take it easy, Mr. Minch,” said Matt. “I'll have this place cleaned up in no time.”

“See that you do,” said Mr. Minch. “This may not be a first-class hotel, but there is no excuse for a dirty lobby. I realize that late arrivals often leave muddy floors, but mouse droppings—! If I continue to find signs of mice, I shall have to let you go.”

That's not fair, thought Ralph, who did not want to lose his loyal friend. Matt had been part of the hotel as long as he could remember, much longer than either Mr. Minch or Ryan's mother. Most employees did not stay long at the Mountain View Inn.

“Yes, sir.” The cheer had gone out of Matt's voice.

Ralph, who came from a long line of intelligent mice, knew that most of his relatives had learned to avoid traps and poisons. He was not so sure about his littlest relatives, however. What was left after traps and poisons? Cats. Ralph shuddered at the thought of bloodthirsty cats stalking his innocent little brothers, sisters, and cousins. The littlest one, who always became entangled in the carpet fringe, would be the first to go.

A skier who was looking at headlines on the newspapers on the rack near the door overheard the conversation between Matt and Mr. Minch. “There's a new electronic mouser on the market,” he volunteered. “It makes a noise only mice can hear and drives them out of the building in a hurry.”

“I'll look into it. Something has to be done around here,” said Mr. Minch, as he returned to his office.

Ralph shuddered at the thought of an electronic mouser sending his family screaming into the snow to freeze to death.

Mrs. Bramble wanted to say something pleasant to Matt after the unhappy incident. “One good thing about the ski crowd,” she remarked, “they may track in snow, but they don't bother to drip-dry a lot of clothes and clutter up the bathrooms.” With that cheerful remark, she went upstairs to count sheets and towels in the linen room.

“More like a fourth-rate hotel, if you ask me,” muttered Matt, who had seen better days. He dragged out the vacuum cleaner. “Old Minch will never spend a nickel on an electronic mouser. How am I supposed to get rid of mice? Say, ‘Please, mousies, go away so old Mr. High-and-mighty won't throw me out in the cold'?”

As the vacuum cleaner roared back and forth across the carpet, Matt looked so worried that Ralph began to worry too. What if the old man really did lose his job in the middle of winter? Where would he go? And what would Ralph do without his friend? He noticed that in spite of his worries, Matt did not run the vacuum cleaner near the hems of the curtains, a favorite hiding place of mice.

Ralph sat back on his haunches and began his morning grooming. As he wiped his paws over his whiskers, he suddenly had a most unhappy thought. He was to blame for Matt's trouble. If he had been an ordinary mouse without a motorcycle, all his little relatives would not have come flocking into the lobby. They would still live upstairs, snug in their nests behind the baseboards, growing fat on crumbs from all the food skiers smuggled into their rooms to avoid the dining-room prices.

Ralph paused in his washing to think. If he moved back upstairs, his relatives would follow. But what about his motorcycle? He couldn't leap up a flight of stairs with it; neither could he leave it behind. Never! If he left it behind, some of his older cousins would grab it and stay in the lobby—at least until they wore it out or wrecked it—and the younger relatives would stay too.

What was Ralph to do? He was still turning over this problem in his mind when the clock above him ground and groaned and managed to bring out eight bongs. Right on schedule, Ryan came running into the lobby, warmly dressed to go to that mysterious place known as school. He was carrying his books and lunch in a backpack. Ralph admired his waffle stompers.

The muddy floor caught Ryan's attention. He studied the mud, and when Matt left to fetch a mop, he got down on the floor in front of the clock and pressed his cheek against the floor so that he could speak to Ralph. “I saw your tire tracks,” he whispered. “I bet you had a great time last night.”

“Yeah, except for a bunch of little mice,” said Ralph.

“What's the matter?” Ryan asked him. “You sound unhappy.”

Suddenly Ralph knew what he had to do. He thought fast, which was easy for him. Mice often have to think fast to survive. “Look, Ryan,” he said. “I'm in trouble, and I don't have time to tell you about it. Just take me and my motorcycle with you, and don't ask questions.”

“To school?” Ryan was surprised.

“Come on,” begged Ralph. “We're friends, aren't we?”

“Sure we're friends,” agreed Ryan, “but—”

“There's no time for buts,” said Ralph, who knew Ryan would soon have to leave to catch the school bus.

“Well, OK, if you say so,” said Ryan.

By the time “OK” had passed Ryan's lips, Ralph was wheeling out his motorcycle with his crash helmet dangling from the handlebars. “I'll stay out of sight,” he assured his friend. “There must be someplace I can live at school.”

Ryan stuffed the motorcycle into one pocket of his parka and picked Ralph up carefully so he wouldn't smash his tiny ribs. “You mean you want to
stay
at school?”

“Yes,” said Ralph, suddenly frightened by his decision. “There must be someplace I can hide.”

Ryan thought a moment. “Well, there's one of Melissa Hopper's boots. You could hide there.”

“Doesn't she wear her boots?” asked Ralph, picturing himself squashed in the toe of a boot by the foot of Melissa, whoever she was.

“Not if she can help it,” said Ryan. “Melissa hates boots, so she leaves them at school. That way her mother can't make her wear them.”

A sensible girl, thought Ralph.

Mrs. Bramble came bustling back into the lobby. “Ryan, what on earth are you doing on your knees? You should be on your way out to the highway, or you'll miss your bus.”

“Just checking the floor for dust,” fibbed Ryan, as he quickly slid Ralph into his parka pocket. “Bye, Mom.” And he ran out the door and went crunching through the snow to the highway.

Ryan must have had second thoughts about taking Ralph to school. He said, “I guess Miss K won't mind.”

“Who's Miss K?” asked Ralph.

“My teacher,” explained Ryan. “Her real name is Miss Kuckenbacker, but she told us to call her Miss K, because calling her Miss Kuckenbacker would take up too much classroom time.”

“Oh,” said Ralph, mystified.

To Ralph, school was a strange and mysterious place. When he had been a very young mouse, Ralph had pictured school as something like a bus, because mothers and fathers who arrived at the hotel with several children after a long, hot drive across the Sacramento Valley or the long, winding ride over the Sierra Nevada often said, “I'll be so glad when school starts.” Ralph had naturally concluded that because a school started, it must also move like a car.