The Indian in the Cupboard Complete Collection. Lynne Banks Reid
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edged round the door. Mr Johnson was seated at his large desk, working at some papers. He looked up at once.
“Well, you two? What was it this time – fighting in the playground or talking in class?”
“Talking,” they said, and Patrick added, “And I was late.”
“Why?”
“I just was.”
“Oh, don’t waste my time!” snapped Mr Johnson. “There must have been a reason.”
“I was in the music-room, and I forgot the time,” Patrick repeated.
“I don’t remember you being especially musical. What were you doing in the music-room?”
“Playing.”
“Which instrument?” asked Mr Johnson with a touch of sarcasm.
“Just – playing.”
“With what?” he asked, raising his voice.
“With a – with—” he glanced at Omri. Omri threw him a warning grimace.
“What are you pulling faces about, Omri? You look as if someone’s just stuck a knife into you.”
Omri started to giggle, and that set Patrick off.
“Somebody just did!” spluttered Patrick.
Mr Johnson was in no such jolly mood, however. He was scowling horribly.
“What are you talking about, you silly boy? Stop that idiotic noise!”
Patrick’s giggles were getting worse. If they hadn’t been where they were, Omri thought, Patrick would have folded up completely.
“Someone – did – stick a knife into him!” hiccupped Patrick, and added, “A very small one!” His voice went off into a sort of whinny.
Omri had stopped giggling and was staring in awful anticipation at Patrick. When Patrick got into this state he was apt to do and say anything, like someone who’s drunk. He took hold of his arm and gave it a sharp shake.
“Shut up!” he hissed.
Mr Johnson got up slowly and came round his desk. Both boys fell back a step, but Patrick didn’t stop giggling. On the contrary, it got worse. He seemed to be getting completely helpless. Mr Johnson loomed over him and took him by the shoulder.
“Listen here, my lad,” he said in fearsome tones. “I want you to pull yourself together this moment and tell me what you meant. If there is any child in this school who so far forgets himself as to stick knives into people, or even pretend to, I want to know about it! Now, who was it?”
“Little – Bull!” Patrick squeaked out. Tears were running down his cheeks.
Omri gasped. “Don’t!”
“Who?” asked Mr Johnson, puzzled.
Patrick didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was now speechless with nervous, almost hysterical laughter.
Mr Johnson gave him a shake of his own that rocked him back and forth on his feet like one of those weighted dolls that won’t fall down. Then, abruptly, he let him go and strode back to his desk.
“You seem to be quite beyond yourself,” he said sharply. “I think the only thing I can do is telephone your father.”
Patrick stopped laughing instantly.
“Ah, that’s better!” said Mr Johnson. “Now. Who did you say had stabbed Omri?”
Patrick stood rigid, like a soldier at attention. He didn’t look at Omri, he just stared straight at Mr Johnson.
“I want the truth, Patrick, and I want it now!”
“Little Bull,” said Patrick very clearly and much louder than necessary.
“Little Who?”
“Bull.”
Mr Johnson looked blank, as well he might. “Is that somebody’s nickname, or is this your idea of a joke?”
Patrick gave his head one stiff shake. Omri was staring at him, as if paralysed. Was he going to tell? He knew Patrick was afraid of his father.
“Patrick. I shall ask you once more. Who is this – Little Bull?”
Patrick opened his mouth. Omri clenched his teeth. He was helpless. Patrick said, “He’s an Indian.”
“A what?” asked Mr Johnson. His voice was very quiet now. He didn’t sound annoyed any more.
“An Indian.”
Mr Johnson looked at him steadily for some seconds, his chin resting on his hand.
“You are too old to tell those sort of lies,” he said quietly.
“It’s not a lie!” Patrick shouted suddenly, making both Omri and Mr Johnson jump. “It’s not a lie! He’s a real live Indian!”
To Omri’s utter horror, he saw that Patrick was beginning to cry. Mr Johnson saw it too. He was not an unkind man. No headmaster is much good if he can’t scare the wits out of children when necessary, but Mr Johnson didn’t enjoy making them cry.
“Now then, Patrick, none of that,” he said gruffly. But Patrick misunderstood. He thought he was still saying he didn’t believe him.
He now said the words Omri had been dreading most.
“It’s true and I can prove it!”
And his hand went to his pocket.
Omri did the only thing possible. He jumped at him and knocked him over. He sat on his chest and pinned his hands to the ground.
“You dare – you dare – you dare—” he ground out between clenched teeth before Mr Johnson managed to drag him off.
“Get out of the room!” he roared.
“I won’t!” Omri choked out. He’d be crying himself in a minute, he felt so desperate.
“OUT!”
Omri felt his collar seized. He was almost hiked off his feet. The next thing he knew, he was outside the door and hearing the key turning.
Without stopping to think, Omri hurled himself against the door, kicking and banging with his fists.
“Don’t show him, Patrick, don’t show him! Patrick, don’t, I’ll kill you if you show him!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
Footsteps came running. Through his tears and a sort of red haze, Omri just about saw Mrs Hunt, the headmaster’s elderly secretary, bearing down on him. He got in a couple more good kicks and shouts before she had hold of him and, with both arms round his waist, carried him, shrieking and struggling, bodily into her own little office.
The minute she put him down he tried to bolt, but she hung on.
“Omri! Omri! Stop it, calm down, whatever’s come over you, you naughty boy!”
“Please don’t let him! Go in and stop him!” Omri cried.
“Who? What?”
Before Omri could explain he heard the sound of footsteps from the next room. Suddenly Mr Johnson appeared, holding Patrick by the elbow. The headmaster’s face was dead white, and his mouth was partly open. Patrick’s head was hung down and his shoulders were heaving with sobs. One look at him told Omri the worst. Patrick had shown the headmaster.