Runaway Ralph

by Beverly Cleary

  “Why, hello there, young fellow,” said Matt. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m running away,” said Ralph. “On my motorcycle.”

  “You don’t say!” exclaimed Matt.

  “Yes. I’ve had enough of this place,” said Ralph. “I’m going someplace where I can be free.”

  “You want to get away from your family,” said Matt, grasping the situation at once. “You want to be independent.”

  “That’s right,” said Ralph. “I’m tired of being bossed around by my mother and Uncle Lester. I’m fed up with my pesty little brothers and sisters and cousins. I don’t want to grow up to be another crumb-scrounging mouse. I want adventure and excitement, and I’m going to ride off on my motorcycle and find it.”

  “Sounds good,” observed Matt. “I wish I could do the same. Just ride off into the night on a motorcycle. I always wanted a motorcycle, but I never could afford one. When I was young I had to help my folks, and then I had a family of my own to take care of. Now that my family has grown up and gone away, I’m too old for a motorcycle.”

  The mouse and the man were silent a moment before Ralph said, “Well, I guess I’d better be going.”

  “So long,” said Matt. “Good luck. I’m going to miss you. It always cheered me up to see you tearing around the halls like a little daredevil. Made the suitcases seem lighter somehow.” With that parting comment he turned and started back toward the door of the hotel.

  “Hey, wait!” squeaked Ralph.

  Matt turned. “You want something?”

  For some reason Ralph hesitated before he said, “I was wondering if you would lift my motorcycle down the steps for me.”

  “And I was wondering how you were going to manage,” remarked Matt, but he did not move to help Ralph.

  “Uh…I’d like to get started,” said Ralph. “I have a long way to go tonight.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you out,” said Matt.

  Ralph was astounded. For a grown-up human being, Matt always had been cooperative. “How come?” he demanded.

  “If I lifted your motorcycle down the steps, you would be depending on me,” said Matt, “and depending on others is not being independent.”

  Ralph was bewildered. “But how am I going to get my motorcycle down the steps without breaking it?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Matt. “I just hope I don’t have to come out here in the morning and sweep up pieces of red motorcycle.” He turned then and went back into the hotel, closing the door behind him.

  “Well, how do you like that!” said Ralph to himself. “And all the time I thought he was my friend.”

  Off in the distance an owl hooted. The night suddenly seemed vast, and a mouse a very small creature indeed. The row of empty chairs rocking in the breeze made Ralph nervous. He could not get over the feeling there were unseen people sitting in them, ghosts who might at any moment chase him and steal his motorcycle. He looked down at the three concrete steps and the curve of the driveway below them. His motorcycle was a good sturdy vehicle, but it would never survive three bounces on concrete. It would be smashed to bits—bits for Matt to sweep up in the morning.

  Suddenly Ralph was angry. He was furious at the way his old friend had treated him. He would show Matt that he could manage without help. Matt would come out in the morning expecting to find Ralph waiting to be let in, but Ralph would fool him. He wouldn’t be waiting, and there wouldn’t be any broken motorcycle at the foot of the steps either.

  Ralph set about finding a solution to his problem. He looked at the ghostly rocking chairs, the cracked concrete porch, the steps, and the asphalt driveway below. Once Ralph had taken the trouble to look, the solution to getting his motorcycle down the steps seemed surprisingly easy. About three inches below the porch on either side of the steps was a sloping section of concrete, a sort of ramp intended as an edge to the steps. The two ramps were about ten inches wide and each sloped down to a flat section. Below each flat section was a shrub that had been pruned into a somewhat lopsided ball of leaves.

  All Ralph had to do was ride his motorcycle over the edge, down the slope, and into the shrub, which would break his fall and let him slide gently through the leaves to the ground. The only problem was that terrifying three-inch drop from the porch to the slanting concrete, but Ralph was sure that with a cool head and steady paws he could manage. He would show old Matt a thing or two!

  Ralph wheeled his motorcycle back from the edge of the porch but in line with one of the concrete ramps. High speed would be best, he decided, speed fast enough to carry him over the edge without wobbling so that he would land on the ramp on both wheels. Ralph’s heart was pounding as he mounted his motorcycle, but his head was cool and his paws steady on the handle grips.

  Ralph drew a deep breath. Pb-pb-b-b-b. His paws tightened on the handle grips. He rode smoothly toward the edge of the porch. He held his breath as he shot out into space as he had planned. There was a sudden heart-shaking drop before the tires hit the ramp.

  At this point everything went wrong. Before Ralph realized what was happening, the motorcycle shot down the ramp, which was worn smooth by the many children who had slid down it. Ralph flew into the air and fell upside down into the shrub. He lost his grip on the motorcycle and felt himself brushed by leaves and scratched by twigs until he came to rest wedged into the crotch of a small branch. His helmet had fallen off, one ear was scratched, and he was badly frightened, but he was not injured.

  When Ralph had caught his breath and his heart no longer pounded against his ribs, he boosted himself up so that he was sitting in the crotch of the twig. The shrub was not the leafy cushion he had expected. From his perch in the center he could see that the leaves grew only at the tips of the twigs and that the bush, which had looked soft and springy from the outside, was on the inside leafless and spiky with dead twigs.

  My motorcycle, thought Ralph frantically. Where is it? Then he saw it, far above his head hanging on a twig by its back wheel. His helmet, however, had bounced to the ground.

  Ralph did the only thing he could do and that was climb up to his motorcycle and start chewing. The twig that held the motorcycle had a dry and dusty taste, but Ralph chewed until it snapped and the motorcycle slid down to the crotch of the twig below. Ralph climbed down, and when he could not free the motorcycle with his paws, he started chewing once more. No little cousin was ever going to say to him, What happened to your motorcycle, Ralph? Huh? What happened to your motorcycle?

  Ralph chewed his motorcycle from one twig to the next, and the lower he went, the thicker the twigs became. By the time the motorcycle finally dropped to the ground beside the helmet, Ralph’s jaws ached. He dragged the motorcycle across the weedy patch of lawn to the driveway and was about to mount when the door of the hotel unexpectedly opened and old Matt, in pajamas and bathrobe, stepped out on the porch and looked around.

  “The little fellow must have managed to get his motorcycle down the steps somehow,” Ralph heard Matt mutter to himself. “Now maybe I can get to sleep.”

  I guess I showed you, thought Ralph grimly, as he mounted his motorcycle and sped off down the open road, off into the dark and scary night. So long, brothers, sisters, cousins! So long, Uncle Lester! So long, Matt! Ralph was on his way!

  Pb-pb-b-b-b. Ralph bounced along the uneven driveway to the mountain highway, where he quickly discovered that one of the ribbons of concrete pressed smooth by passing tires made a good highway for a mouse. He then made an even more exciting discovery—gravity. With a good fast start he could coast downhill with amazing speed. The halls of the Mountain View Inn were never like this.

  Ralph sped through a night that fulfilled his dreams of freedom. It was a night of danger and adventure. Once when Ralph was frightened by the headlights of an approaching car, he swerved to the side of the road, where he and his motorcycle were caught in the back draft of the passing car and tumbled about like old gum wrappers and tossed into the weeds. Afterward R
alph was alert when he heard a car approaching and got off the road and clung to a weed until the car roared past. He was exhilarated by this test of his skill. Toward dawn logging trucks began to rumble down the mountain, shaking the earth as they came. Ralph never had seen anything so terrifying as those great double-tired monsters with logs lashed to their truck beds barreling down the center of the highway, and he knew the time had come to hide for the day. He ate some dusty weed seeds, drank dew, slept under a leaf, and started off once more at nightfall toward the sound of the bugle.

  Between cars and trucks Ralph tore along down the highway through the shadows of the night. This ride was the freedom he had dreamed of—speed without effort. Once the thought crossed his mind that if he should ever want to return to the Mountain View Inn, he could never make it back up the mountain under his own power. What a silly thought! Why should he ever want to go back to the inn when he could travel this way?

  On the third night of Ralph’s journey, as darkness faded and the pine trees gave way to scrub oak, Ralph found himself out in the open where there were no sheltering shadows. A milk truck rattled past on its way to the Mountain View Inn. Blackbirds greeted the dawn with bursts of gurgling song, and not far away a rooster crowed. A pheasant flew low across the road, startling Ralph and causing him to collide with a piece of gravel. The road, which now followed an irrigation ditch, had leveled off, and Ralph had to produce his own power.

  Pb-pb-b-b-b. As Ralph putted along on his motorcycle, daylight made him uneasy. He was looking for a place to hide when the notes of the bugle, so close he felt as if they might shatter him, burst forth in the lively morning tune. Before they died away, laughter and shouts filled the air. Medium-sized boys and girls! peanut butter and jelly sandwiches! Ralph had reached his destination.

  Ralph wished old Matt could see him as he rode off the road and bounced onto a gravel lane that crossed a small bridge over the irrigation ditch. Ahead lay a number of low, weathered buildings surrounded by lawn and shaded by walnut trees. Boys and girls were washing their faces in washbasins set on benches.

  A big brown dog, barking furiously, came bounding toward Ralph, who stopped, frozen with terror. The dog stopped, too, so suddenly he nearly sat down in the gravel. He recovered himself and approached, snuffling with his wet black nose. Ralph sat with his paws clutching his handle grips in fear while the horrible black nose sniffed him.

  “And just who do you think you are?” asked the dog.

  “Quiet, Sam!” yelled a boy.

  “A m-mouse.” Ralph felt very, very meek.

  Sam eyed Ralph with curiosity. “Where did you get the motorcycle?” he wanted to know.

  “A boy gave it to me.” Ralph was beginning to feel slightly braver, but only slightly. That big dog could gobble a mouse in one gulp. But not if I hang onto my motorcycle, thought Ralph, feeling that his courage had not deserted him entirely. A dog would not eat a motorcycle.

  “No kidding,” said Sam. “A mouse-sized motorcycle! Where did you come from?”

  “The Mountain View Inn.”

  “That run-down place,” said Sam. “I’m not surprised the mice are deserting it. Where are you going?”

  “Well…here, I guess,” said Ralph. “I followed the sound of the bugle. I wanted to be near medium-sized children and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

  “Sorry,” said Sam. “You can’t come in here. I’m the watchdog of Happy Acres Camp, and it’s my job to protect the camp.”

  “Aw, come on,” said Ralph, who was beginning to see that Sam was not really a ferocious dog. “I’m just a mouse.”

  Sam looked uncomfortable. Obviously he was a dog that liked to please everyone. “I would let you in if I could, but my orders are to keep out anyone who doesn’t belong here.”

  Ralph hunched down on his motorcycle. “Please. I’m just a teeny little brown mouse. Nobody would even notice me.”

  Sam’s honest brown face looked worried. “No,” he said at last. “I can’t let you in. I have my orders from Aunt Jill and Uncle Steve in the camp office. They are in charge here.”

  “I’ve had a long, hard trip,” said Ralph. “I’m tired and I’m hungry.”

  Sam looked so worried that Ralph pressed his advantage. “You know boys like mice. They would be glad to have me.”

  Sam looked back toward a white building under the walnut trees. Then he looked down at Ralph. “I tell you I can’t do it,” he said. “If I let you come in I’d be breaking my orders. I’m already in trouble because a car came along in the middle of the night and dumped a box of kittens. It got away before I could rouse anybody.”

  “Kittens!” squeaked Ralph in horror.

  “I have the worst time with kittens.” Sam’s voice was gloomy. “People are always dumping kittens here, because they know girls will beg their parents to let them take them home.”

  “Very many kittens?” asked Ralph, who was feeling nervous once more.

  “Too many,” said Sam. “We already had three kittens that belonged here, and the other night six more were dumped. And once they are here, I’m not allowed to chase them. I tell you, it isn’t fair. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s kittens. Silly little things with no sense of responsibility.”

  Sam’s troubles made Ralph feel cocky once more. “If you’re a watchdog, watch me!” he said, and taking a deep breath he shot between Sam’s legs and out the other side before the surprised dog could turn around. Ralph swerved around a green walnut lying on the ground and into a patch of weeds beside a nearby building.

  “Come back here,” barked Sam. “You aren’t supposed to do that.” He began to snuffle around in the weeds.

  Ralph had not expected to be snuffled for. He had thought that once he was inside the camp, Sam would give up.

  Sam growled and moved his nose around in the weeds like a doggy vacuum cleaner. Unable to ride, Ralph pushed his motorcycle farther back into the weeds. The wet black nose parted the stalks, but Ralph was saved by a gopher hole. He dragged his motorcycle into its shelter.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” growled Sam, and began to dig with his powerful front paws. Dirt began to fly. Pulling his motorcycle after him, Ralph waded farther back through the loose dirt into the gopher hole. Faster went the paws.

  “Hey, everybody! Sam’s after a gopher!” a boy yelled, and Ralph could feel feet pounding on the ground overhead.

  “Go get him, Sam!” urged another boy.

  “Sickum, Sam,” everyone seemed to be saying at once.

  “You’re being mean to the gopher,” protested a girl.

  Several girls’ voices began to yell, “Go, gopher, go!”

  Faster and faster flew the paws with their strong toenails. Sam was panting now. Ralph pushed farther and farther back into the gopher run until a disagreeable voice ahead of him said, “And where do you think you’re going?”

  “Eek!” squeaked Ralph, face-to-face with the owner of the gopher run. He hastily pushed his motorcycle, which he had been pulling, ahead of him for protection.

  “Beat it,” said the gopher, squinting at Ralph. “I didn’t dig this tunnel for mice.”

  The digging paws were coming closer. “Attaboy, Sam!” shouted the boys.

  “Go, gopher, go!” shouted the girls.

  Even the gopher looked uneasy. “Please,” pleaded Ralph, “save me from that beast.”

  The gopher was more interested in saving himself. Already he was beginning to move farther down the run. “You can stay until that dog stops digging and no longer,” he said, and fled off into the network of tunnels.

  Not far away a bell clanged. “Breakfast! Chow time!” yelled the boys, and the feet that went pounding off in the direction of the bell shook the ground overhead. The paws stopped churning, but overhead Ralph could hear the sound of panting. Sam poked his fearsome snout into the gopher hole for one last sniff before he too trotted off for breakfast.

  “Whew!” gasped Ralph, leaning against his motorcycle. He had picture
d camp as a place where boys would bring him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, not this dark and dusty tunnel inhabited by a grouchy gopher.

  3

  An Educational Toy

  Ralph did not rest long.

  “On your feet, mouse,” said the gopher, appearing from the dark recesses of the gopher run. “You can go now.”

  “Do I have to?” pleaded Ralph, nervously eyeing the gopher’s long curving teeth. “I’ve come a long way, and I need a day’s sleep.”

  “Go on, beat it.” The gopher stared at Ralph with his nearsighted eyes. “This is my run, and I don’t want it cluttered up with mice.”

  “Please.” Ralph tried to sound pitiful. “I’m just a little mouse, and I’ve had a long, hard trip.”

  “I know you mice,” answered the gopher. “You are little and you look helpless, but when you move in you take over.” Then he added in a more kindly tone, “Anyway, you had better get out while you can. That dog will eat his breakfast and go off on his round of inspection, and when he sees all the dirt he churned up, he’ll start digging again.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” admitted Ralph, who was not eager to share a tunnel with a grouchy gopher. He pushed his motorcycle up toward the circle of light that was the entrance to the gopher run. There he paused until his eyes became accustomed to the sunlight.

  A stray chicken wandered across the lawn under the walnut trees. A horse whinnied from the barn, and from the dining hall came the laughter and chatter of boys and girls and the clatter of silverware. The place seemed safe enough at the moment. Ralph permitted himself a leisurely but bumpy ride along a path that led to a small weathered building shaded by an arbor of grapevines. At the corner of the building he found a clump of bamboo, which offered the possibility of shelter. The fallen leaves and husks of the young bamboo shoots were broad and smooth, and the dried edges curled. He laid his motorcycle at the foot of the bamboo and pulled a husk over it. The edges curled around it so that it was hidden completely. He put his helmet under another husk, and too tired to scrounge for food, Ralph crawled under a third husk.