The Indian in the Cupboard Complete Collection. Lynne Banks Reid
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Their breathing gave them away, though.
“Well, you two, what are you puffing about? Been running?”
They glanced at each other and nodded.
“So long as you’ve not been fighting,” she said, giving them a sharp look. She always behaved as if a little fight was a long step along the road to hell.
Neither of the boys got much work done during the morning. They couldn’t concentrate. Each of them was too aware of the passenger in his pocket. Both Little Bull and Boone were restless, particularly Little Bull. Boone was naturally lazier; he kept dozing off in the dark, and then waking with a little jump that made Patrick very nervous. But Little Bull was scrambling about the whole time.
It was during the third period – when they were all in the main hall listening to the headmaster, whose name was Mr Johnson, announcing plans for the end-of-year show – that Little Bull got really sick and tired of being imprisoned, and started to take drastic action.
The first thing Omri knew was a sharp prick in his hip, as if an insect had stung him. For a moment he was silly enough to think an ant or even a wasp had somehow got into his clothes, and he only just stopped himself from slapping his hand instinctively against his side to squash it. Then there came another jab, sharper than the first, sharp enough in fact to make Omri let out a short yelp.
“Who did that?” asked Mr Johnson irritably.
Omri didn’t answer, but the girls sitting near him began giggling and staring.
“Was that you, Omri?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, something stuck into me.”
“Patrick! Did you stick a pencil into Omri?” (Such a thing was not unknown during assemblies when they were bored.)
“No Mr Johnson.”
“Well, be quiet when I’m talking!”
Another jab, and this time Little Bull meant business and kept his knife embedded. Omri shouted “Ouch!” and jumped to his feet.
“Omri! Patrick! Leave the hall!”
“But I didn’t—” began Patrick.
“Out, I said!” shouted Mr Johnson furiously.
They left, Patrick walking normally and Omri dancing about like a flea on a hot stove, shouting “Ow! OW!” at every step as Little Bull continued to dig the needle-point of his knife in. The whole school was in hysterics of laughter (and Mr Johnson was frothing with rage) by the time they reached the swing-doors and departed.
Outside, they ran (well, Patrick ran and Omri performed a series of sideways leaps) to the far end of the playground. On the way Omri plunged his hand into his pocket, seized Little Bull, and dragged him out. The agony stopped.
Safe in a sheltered corner behind some privet bushes Omri held his persecutor at eye-level and shook him violently, the way you shake a bottle of medicine. He called him the worst names he could possibly think of. When he’d run out of swear-words (which was not for some time) he hissed, like Mr Johnson, “What do you mean by it? How dare you? How dare you stick your knife into me?”
“Little Bull dare! Omri keep in dark many hours! Little Bull want see school place, not lie in hot dark! No breathe, no see! Want enjoy!”
“I warned you you wouldn’t, it’s not my fault you made me bring you! Now you’ve got me into trouble.”
Little Bull looked mulish, but he stopped shouting. Seeing this evidence that a truce was on its way, Omri calmed down a bit too.
“Listen. I can’t let you see because I can’t take you out. You have no idea what would happen if I did. If any of the other children saw you they’d want to grab you and mess you about – you’d hate it, and it would be terribly dangerous too, you’d probably get hurt or killed. You’ve got to lie quiet till school’s over. I’m sorry if you’re bored but it’s your own fault.”
Little Bull thought this over and then he said a most astonishing thing.
“Want Boone.”
“What? Your enemy?”
“Better enemy than alone in dark.”
Patrick had taken Boone out of his pocket. The little cowboy was sitting on his hand. They were gazing at each other. Omri said, “Boone, Little Bull says he wants you. He’s lonely and bored.”
“Well, ain’t that jest too bad!” said Boone sarcastically. “After he tried to kill me, now he’s come over all lovey-dovey. Listen, you redskin!” he shouted through cupped hands across the yawning gulf between Patrick and Omri. “I don’t care how lonesome y’are! Ah don’t care if’n ya drop down daid! Th’only good Injun’s a daid Injun, d’ya hear me?”
Little Bull turned his head haughtily away.
“I think he’s lonely too, really,” said Patrick in a whisper. “He’s been crying.”
“Oh no, not again!” said Omri. “Honestly, Boone – at your age—”
Just then they heard their teacher calling them from the school door.
“Come on, you two! You’ve not got the day off, you know!”
“Give me your knife,” said Omri to Little Bull on a sudden impulse. “Then I’ll put you together.” With only a moment’s hesitation, Little Bull handed over his knife. Omri slipped it into the small breast-pocket of his shirt which was empty and where it wouldn’t easily get lost. Then he said to Patrick, “Let me have Boone.”
“No!”
“Just for the next lesson. Then at lunchtime you can have both of them. They’ll keep each other company. They can’t do each other much damage in a pocket.”
Reluctantly Patrick handed Boone over. Omri held them one in each hand so they were face to face.
“Be good, you two. Try talking to each other instead of fighting. But whatever you do, don’t make any noise.” And he slipped them both into his left-hand pocket and he and Patrick ran back to the school buildings.
Chapter Twelve TROUBLE WITH AUTHORITY
WHAT WAS LEFT of the morning passed uneventfully. Omri even got a few sums done. By the time the first whiffs of school dinner were beginning to flood through the classrooms, Omri was congratulating himself on a stroke of genius in putting the two little men together. There had not been another peep out of either of them, and when Omri took an opportunity (when the teacher’s back was turned) to open his pocket stealthily and peer down into it, he was pleased to see them, sitting in the bottom of it, face to face, apparently having a conversation. They were both gesticulating with their arms – there was too much noise all round for Omri to be able to hear their tiny voices.
He had given some thought to the matter of their dinner. He would separate them for that, one into each pocket and slip some dry bits of food down to them. Omri let himself play with the wonderful fantasy of what the other kids’ reaction would be if he casually brought them out and sat them on the edge of his plate… Funny to think that he would certainly have done it, only a week ago, without thinking about the dangers.
The bell rang at last. There was the usual stampede, and Omri found himself in the queue next to Patrick.
“Come on then, hand them over,” Patrick whispered over his tray as they shuffled towards the fragrant hatches.
“Not now, everyone’d see.”
“You