Ralph S. Mouse Read online

  Beverly Cleary

  Ralph S. Mouse

  Illustrated by Tracy Dockray

  Contents

  1. A Dark and Snowy Night

  2. Ralph’s Decision

  3. Irwin J. Sneed Elementary School

  4. Life at School

  5. The Great Mouse Exhibit

  6. The Maze

  7. The Cucaracha Voice

  8. Ralph Speaks

  9. The Surprise

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books by Beverly Cleary

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  A Dark and Snowy Night

  Night winds, moaning around corners and whistling through cracks, dashed snow against the windows of the Mountain View Inn. Inside, a fire crackled in the stone fireplace. The grandfather clock, as old and tired as the inn itself, marked the passing of time with a slow tick…tock… that seemed to say, “Wait…ing, wait…ing.”

  Everyone in the lobby was waiting—the desk clerk, the handyman, old Matt, who also carried guests’ luggage to their rooms, Ryan Bramble, the son of the hotel’s new housekeeper, and Ralph, the mouse who lived under the grandfather clock.

  The desk clerk dozed, waiting for guests who did not arrive. Matt leaned against the wall to watch television while he waited for the desk clerk to close up for the night. Ryan, sitting on the floor to watch television, waited for his mother to tell him to go to bed because he had to go to school the next day. Ralph, crouched beside Ryan, waited for the adults to leave so he could bring out his mouse-sized motorcycle. Unfortunately, Ralph’s little brothers, sisters, and cousins, hiding in the woodpile and behind the curtains, were also waiting.

  On the television set, a sports car crashed into a truck, shot off a cliff, and burst into flames.

  “Wow!” Without taking his eyes from the screen, Ryan said, “There’s a boy at school named Brad Kirby, who would really like this movie. He has a BMX bicycle for motocross racing, and his father sometimes drives him to school in a tow truck.” A police car followed the sports car over the cliff before Ryan added, “Brad isn’t very friendly to me. He’s sort of a loner.”

  Ralph was more interested in television than in Ryan’s problems. “If I had a sports car like that,” he said, “I wouldn’t let it run off a cliff.”

  Ralph was an unusual mouse. He had listened to so many children and watched so much television that he had learned to talk. Not everyone could understand him. Those who could were lonely children who shared Ralph’s interest in fast cars and motorcycles and who took the trouble to listen. Other children, if they happened to glimpse Ralph, said, “I saw a mouse that squeaked funny.”

  Matt was the only adult who understood Ralph. “Yes, sir, that mouse is a mouse in a million,” he often told himself.

  Ralph knew there were not really a million mice in the inn, although he had to admit that in wintertime the mouseholes were crowded, because his rough outdoor relatives moved inside to keep warm. Ralph’s mother said they were a rowdy bunch that set a bad example for the more civilized indoor mice.

  While Ralph and Ryan were enjoying a commercial for a truck that could zigzag without overturning, Matt strolled into a room called the Jumping Frog Lounge and returned with a handful of popcorn. He dropped one kernel in front of Ralph.

  “Thanks,” said Ralph, who enjoyed nibbling popcorn while watching television.

  As the commercial ended, Mrs. Bramble entered the lobby. “Come on, my boy,” she said to Ryan. “It’s past your bedtime. You know the manager doesn’t like you hanging around the lobby.”

  “Aw, Mom, just let me watch the end of the program,” pleaded Ryan. “I’ll leave if any guests arrive.”

  At that moment, the rattle and crunch of a car with chains on its tires was heard. Ryan rose and walked backward out of the lobby so he wouldn’t miss the high-speed, siren-screaming chase on the television screen. As he left, he gave Ralph a little wave with his fingertips, a wave no one else would notice. Ralph wished Ryan could stay up all night like a mouse.

  As the car stopped in front of the hotel and the desk clerk roused himself, Ralph scurried under the grandfather clock to the nest he had made from chewed-up Kleenex, a lost ski-lift ticket, and a few bits of carpet fringe he had nipped off when no one was looking. Beside his nest rested his two precious possessions: a little red motorcycle and a crash helmet made from half a Ping-Pong ball lined with thistledown, gifts of a boy who had once stayed in the hotel.

  Above Ralph the clock began to grind and groan and strike, bong…bong, as if it had to summon strength for each stroke. Ralph dreaded the sound, even though it was the reason he lived under the clock. The noise terrified his little relatives, who thought the clock was out to get them. As long as they feared the clock, Ralph’s motorcycle was safe.

  The car door slammed. Feet stomped on the porch. When Matt opened the door to let two people blow into the lobby, a blast of freezing air sent Ralph’s nest swirling around in bits. Never mind, thought Ralph, peeking out at two pair of boots, the kind known as waffle stompers, which had thick treads that held snow.

  “Do you have a room for the night?” the owner of the larger boots asked the desk clerk.

  “H-mm, let’s see,” murmured the clerk, who always behaved as if the hotel might be full even though he knew it was not.

  Stop pretending, thought Ralph, who was tired of waiting.

  “Well…” The desk clerk ended the suspense. “I can let you have Room 207. Just fill out this card, please.”

  Ralph’s keen ears heard the scratch of a pen and the rattle of a key. He winced when the clerk banged the bell on the desk for Matt, even though Matt was standing right there, waiting to carry the guests’ bags.

  “Never mind,” said one of the guests to Matt. “We can find our room.” The pair picked up their luggage and stepped into the elevator, leaving behind puddles of melted snow.

  “Cheapskates,” muttered Matt. Guests at this hotel often insisted on carrying luggage to avoid tipping him.

  After the elevator door closed, Ralph worried that the puddles might dry before he had the lobby to himself. Time dragged on. The man in the red vest who worked in the Jumping Frog Lounge came out, yawned, and remarked that he might as well close for the night. The television station went off the air. The desk clerk locked the front door and left. If any more guests arrived, they would have to ring the night bell. Matt began to turn out the lights.

  At last! Ralph threw his leg over his motorcycle, adjusted the rubber band that held his crash helmet in place, and grasped his tail so that it would not become tangled in his spokes. Then, because as everyone knows, a toy motorcycle moves when someone makes a noise like a motorcycle, Ralph took a deep breath, went pb-b-b, b-b-b, and shot out from under the clock. Gradually he picked up speed and zoomed through a puddle. Wings of water fanned out from his wheels. It was a thrilling experience.

  All of Ralph’s little brothers, sisters, and cousins, hoping Matt would not notice them in the dim light, popped out from their hiding places to watch. Of course, Ralph had to show off. He took deeper breaths and rode faster, making puddles splash higher and leaving tiny tire tracks on the dry linoleum. Matt, who was banking the fire for the night, laid down the poker to enjoy the sight.

  Unfortunately, the little relatives were not satisfied. Not now. Once Ralph’s indoor relatives had been happy to have Ralph push them up and down the halls on his motorcycle, but this treat was not enough for his rowdy outdoor relatives. They wanted to ride the motorcycle by themselves, so now all the mice wanted to ride. They came running and jumping, across the threadbare carpet, to the linoleum, squealing, “I want a ride!” “Gimme a turn!” “Come
on, Ralph, get off and let us use it!”

  Ralph started to whiz around in a figure eight when his tires slipped and the motorcycle tipped. He lost control and landed in icy, dirty water.

  The daring outdoor mice waded out to grab the motorcycle, but Ralph was quick. Dripping and shivering, he sprang back on the seat and rode off, pb-b-b, pb-b-b, avoiding clutching paws. If only he could make his relatives behave. “Go away. You’re too little,” said Ralph through chattering teeth, as he swerved to miss tiny toes. “You would forget to hang on to your tails, and you’d get them tangled in my spokes.” He tried to wipe his nose with his wet paw and wished mouse children had to go to bed at night like human children.

  “We would not!” The rougher mice grabbed the motorcycle and brought Ralph to a halt. “And you’re not so big yourself. You fell down.”

  All the mice began to complain. “You let us ride, or we’ll tell your mother on you. She said you were supposed to give us a turn.” Cousins closest to Ralph in age said it wasn’t fair for Ralph to have a motorcycle. Nobody had ever given them motorcycles, and they were just as good as Ralph. Some of the meaner mice told him their mothers said Ralph was spoiled and selfish and would probably turn out to be no good when he grew up.

  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.

  2

  Ralph’s Decision

  After 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 i
n 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.