Ralph S. Mouse Read Free

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.
    â€œMore 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.”
    â€œYeah, except for a bunch of little mice,” said Ralph.
    â€œWhat’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.”
    â€œTo school?” Ryan was surprised.
    â€œCome on,” begged Ralph. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
    â€œSure we’re friends,” agreed Ryan, “but—”
    â€œThere’s no time for buts,” said Ralph, who knew Ryan would soon have to leave to catch the school bus.
    â€œWell, 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