The Mouse and the Motorcycle

by Beverly Cleary

  Ralph was not a mouse to give up easily. He considered his problem a moment before he rolled the motorcycle over to the wall of the wastebasket. Then he seized the apple core by the stem and dragged it over to the motorcycle. By putting his shoulder under the stem end, he managed to raise the core until it was standing on its blossom end, but when he put his front paws around it and tried to lift it, he found he could not. The core was too heavy to lift up onto the seat of the motorcycle. Ralph was disappointed but when he stopped to think it over, he saw that even if he could manage to get the apple core on top of the motorcycle, it still would not be high enough to allow him to climb out of the wastebasket.

  Bruised and defeated, Ralph dropped the core and decided that he might as well be thrown out with the trash on a full stomach as an empty one. He took a bite of apple and felt a little better. It was the best food he had eaten for several days—juicy and full of flavor and much better than the damp zwieback crumbs the last guests had left behind. He took several more bites and settled down to a hearty meal, saving the seeds for dessert.

  Two ant scouts appeared on the rim of the wastebasket.

  “Go away,” said Ralph crossly, because he did not like to eat food crawling with ants and because it embarrassed him to be seen in such a predicament. The ants left as silently as they had come.

  When Ralph had eaten his fill of the apple he curled up beside the core. He only hoped that someone might happen to drop a Kleenex over him. It was bad enough to be carried to one’s doom in a wastebasket, but to be carried to one’s doom by a shrieking maid was unthinkable. There was one tiny ray of hope—if someone did happen to drop a Kleenex over him, he just might have a chance to jump and run when the maid tipped the basket up to empty it into the incinerator.

  The thought that the boy was sure to miss his motorcycle and start looking for it kept Ralph tossing and turning behind the apple core until, stuffed and exhausted, he finally fell asleep.

  4

  Keith

  Ralph did not know how much time had passed before he was awakened by the lamp on the bedside table shining down on him. He squeezed himself into the tiniest possible ball, wrapped his tail around his body, and tried to make himself as thin as the apple core.

  “My motorcycle!” shouted the boy the very first thing. “Somebody stole my motorcycle!”

  Oh-oh, thought Ralph. It won’t be long now.

  “Nobody stole your motorcycle,” answered the boy’s mother from 216. “It’s around someplace. You just mislaid it. You can find it in the morning. You had better get ready for bed now.”

  “No, I didn’t mislay it,” insisted the boy. “I put it right here on the table beside my sports car.”

  “You’ll find it someplace,” said his mother, not much interested. Boys were always losing things.

  While Ralph cowered behind the apple core, Keith opened the drawer of the bedside table and slammed it shut. He jerked back the bedspread, yanked the pillows off the bed, and threw them back. Then he got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed and the table.

  Ralph wrapped his tail more tightly around his body. Here it comes, he thought.

  The boy’s face appeared in the opening at the top of the wastebasket. Ralph’s heart raced like a motor.

  “Ha,” said the boy to himself. “Here it is. I wonder how it got there.” His hand came down into the wastebasket to seize the motorcycle and lift it out. Still leaning over the wastebasket, he examined the bent handlebar and the chipped paint. “That’s funny,” he remarked aloud. “It must have rolled off, but I don’t see how it could.”

  The boy did the natural thing for a boy to do. He looked into the wastebasket again. Ralph closed both eyes tight and waited. He wished he had not eaten so much of the apple core. If he had not been so greedy, the core would have been thicker and he would have been thinner.

  “Hey!” whispered the boy, obviously very much surprised. “How did you get in here?” He was careful to keep his voice lower than the sound of the breezes in the pines outside the window.

  Ralph did not move. He was grateful to the boy for not touching the apple core even though it was really no protection at all.

  “Psst!” whispered the boy. “Are you asleep?”

  Still Ralph remained motionless except for a slight quiver of his whiskers, which he was unable to control. The boy was silent, but the mouse could feel the rhythmic drafts of his breathing. The boy must be thinking, but what was he thinking? That was what was worrying Ralph. “No,” said the boy to himself. “No, it couldn’t be.”

  Couldn’t be what? wondered Ralph, who was beginning to feel cramped from crouching behind the apple core.

  “Hey, wake up,” whispered the boy.

  That was the last thing Ralph wanted to do.

  “Come on,” pleaded the boy. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Ralph considered. After all, what did he have to lose? If he stayed in the wastebasket, he was almost certain to get dumped into the incinerator. He might as well come out from behind the core. If he did he might find some opportunity to escape. Cautiously he moved his head from his paws and opened one eye. The boy was smiling down at him. Encouraged, Ralph opened the other eye and lifted his head.

  “That’s the stuff,” encouraged the boy. “Now come on. Tell me, did you or didn’t you ride my motorcycle off the bedside table?”

  This took Ralph by surprise. He had not expected the boy to guess what happened. “Well, yes. I guess you might say I did,” confessed Ralph, rubbing his aching muscles.

  “I thought so.” Neither the mouse nor the boy was the least bit surprised that each could understand the other. Two creatures who shared a love for motorcycles naturally spoke the same language. “That must have been some accident. Did it hurt much?”

  “Oh, some,” answered Ralph with a display of bravado. “Anyway, I didn’t exactly ride it. I really coasted off. The telephone rang and startled me. Now how about getting me out of here?”

  “Just a minute,” said the boy. “How did you get up here in the first place?”

  “Climbed, stupid. On the telephone cord.” Ralph instantly regretted his rudeness. He had better watch his tongue if he expected any help in escaping from the wastebasket.

  “Oh, of course,” said the boy apologetically. “I should have thought of that myself.”

  At that moment there came a quick knock on the door to Room 215 and the rattle of a key.

  “Help!” cried Ralph. “The maid! Don’t let her see me!”

  Before the boy could do anything, the maid burst into the room. “Oh—excuse me.” She seemed surprised to see a boy kneeling by the wastebasket. “I’ve come to turn down the bed.”

  “That’s all right,” said the boy quickly. “I can do it myself. Thanks, anyway.”

  “Thank you,” said the maid, backing out of the room. Ralph knew she was not anxious to waste time turning down the bed. As soon as she finished her duties she was going out to the parking lot to meet a busboy, a college boy whose job was clearing tables in the dining room.

  “Whew! That was close.” The boy seemed every bit as relieved as Ralph.

  “I’ll say,” agreed the mouse.

  “Keith,” called his mother from 216. “Are you getting ready for bed?”

  “Sort of,” answered Keith.

  “You’d better come in our bathroom and take a bath,” said his mother.

  “Aw, gee, Mom, do I gotta?” asked Keith.

  “Yes, you do,” said his father.

  “And don’t forget to brush your teeth,” said his mother.

  “I won’t,” promised Keith. Then he whispered to Ralph, “You just lie low. I’ll hurry and take a bath and get into bed and turn out the light and after Mom comes and kisses me good night, we can talk some more.”

  Lie low indeed! Ralph was indignant. He couldn’t lie much lower if he wanted to, and he certainly did not want to sit around waiting to talk. He wanted to get out of that wastebasket. Once he was out
he would see about talking, but not before.

  Ralph could hear the boy splashing in 216’s bathtub and then hastily brushing his teeth in 215’s washbasin. After this there was the sound of a suitcase being opened and clothes dropped on the floor. The boy hopped into bed and to Ralph’s relief, the light was turned out. In a moment Mrs. Gridley came in to kiss her son good night.

  “Night, Mom,” said the boy, sounding as if he were already drowsy.

  “Good night, Keith,” said his mother. “It looks as if we are going to have to stay here for a few days. Your father refuses to budge.”

  “That’s OK,” muttered Keith, giving the impression he was almost asleep.

  “Good boy,” said his mother. “You’re a good sport.”

  “Good night, Son,” said the boy’s father from the doorway between the two rooms.

  Keith did not answer. Instead he breathed slowly and deeply and, as Ralph thought, a bit too noisily. There was no sense in overdoing things.

  As soon as all was quiet in the next room, the boy swung his legs out of bed, fumbled around in his suitcase, and shone a flashlight into the wastebasket.

  Almost blinded by the unexpected light, Ralph held his paws over his eyes. “Hey, cut that out!” He could not remember to be polite.

  “Oh—sorry.” The boy laid the flashlight on the bed, where its beam shone across the wastebasket rather than into it.

  “That’s better,” said Ralph. “Now how about getting me out of here?” As an afterthought he added, “Please.”

  The boy ignored the mouse’s request. “How would you like to ride my motorcycle?” he asked.

  Ralph’s heart skipped a beat like a motor missing on one cylinder. The mouse-sized motorcycle really would run after all! And there was one thing certain. Since the motorcycle really would run, the boy could not expect him to ride around the bottom of a wastebasket. “Sure.” Ralph tried to sound calm. The important thing was to get out of this prison. He braced himself, dreading the touch of the boy’s hand on his fur.

  To Ralph’s surprise, the boy did not reach in and grab him. Instead, he slowly and gently tipped the wastebasket on its side, permitting Ralph to walk to freedom with pride and dignity.

  “Thanks,” said Ralph, genuinely grateful for this consideration. “I believe you’re OK.”

  “Sure I’m OK,” said the boy, setting his motorcycle down beside Ralph. “Did you think I wasn’t?”

  “You never can tell.” Ralph put his paw on the handlebar of the motorcycle. “It’s a real beauty. Even with a bent handlebar. I’m sure sorry about that.”

  “Forget it,” said the boy reassuringly. “It won’t hurt much. The motorcycle will still run.”

  Ralph threw his leg over the motorcycle and settled himself comfortably in the seat.

  “Perfect! Just perfect!” The boy was obviously delighted that his motorcycle was just right for a mouse.

  Ralph could not have agreed more heartily. It was perfect—except for one thing. He did not know how to start it.

  “Well, go on,” said the boy. “Ride it.”

  Ralph was ashamed to confess his ignorance. “I don’t know how to start it,” he admitted. “It’s the first motorcycle I have ever had a chance to ride.”

  “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,” said Ralph. “Now how about opening the door?”

  The boy put his hand on the doorknob. “You won’t let anything happen to my motorcycle, will you?” he asked.

  “You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to a beauty like this,” said Ralph.

  “See that you don’t. And don’t stay out too late.” The boy opened the door and permitted Ralph to putt out into the dim light of the hall.

  Ralph had a scary feeling he was on the threshold of adventure. There were no beds or chairs for him to dart under in ca
se of danger. The floor creaked. Someone was snoring in Room 214 across the hall. Outside in the pines an owl hooted, sending prickles up Ralph’s spine.

  Ralph controlled the trembling of his paws while he hesitated outside the door to consider the possibilities of the hall, which was carpeted down the center, leaving two smooth highways of bare floor on either side along the baseboards. It did not take Ralph long to decide what to do. He picked up his tail, took a deep breath, bent low over the handlebars, flattened his ears, and sped down the straightaway as fast as the motorcycle would go. He could feel his whiskers swept back by the force of his speed. It was glorious!

  Ralph had never ventured so far from home before. The old wooden hotel, cooling in the night air, snapped and creaked, but Ralph was brave. He was riding a motorcycle. He passed Room 213, ran out of breath, and let momentum carry him past another noisy snorer in Room 211, on down the hall to the elevator, the mysterious elevator that carried people to that wonderful place Ralph had heard so much about—the ground floor.

  When Ralph came to the stairs he stopped to look down, knowing it was impossible to ride a motorcycle downstairs and at the same time wishing he could see for himself the wonders that lay below. He sniffed the air and it seemed to him that he could smell the strange foods he had heard about—cinnamon buns with sticky frosting, turkey stuffing, and pancakes with maple syrup. A ray of moonlight from a window glinted on the glassy eye of a mounted deer’s head over the stair landing and startled Ralph, sending him off down the hall, past the broom closet and the linen room to the end of the hall, where he executed a sharp turn and started back.

  Exhilarated by speed, Ralph raced up and down. Once when he heard some people getting out of the elevator he had to duck behind the curtain of the window at the end of the hall. Toward midnight he passed his Aunt Sissy scurrying along the baseboard. He waved and nearly lost control of the motorcycle. Aunt Sissy stopped to stare while Ralph rode on, feeling pleased with himself and at the same time sorry for Aunt Sissy, poor frightened thing with only her feet to carry her from one crumb to the next.