Chapter One
Ralph Hears a Distant Bugle
The small brown mouse named Ralph who was hiding under the
grandfather clock did not have much longer, to wait before
he could ride his motorcycle. The clock had struck eight
already, and then eight thirty.
Ralph was the only mouse in the Mountain View Inn, a run-
down hotel in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, who
owned a motorcycle. It was a mouse-sized red motorcycle, a
present from a boy named Keith who bad been a guest in
Room 215 over the Fourth of July weekend. Ralph was proud
of his motorcycle, but his brothers and sisters said he
was selfish.
"I am not," said Ralph. "Keith gave the motorcycle to me."
That evening, while Ralph waited under the clock and
watched the television set across the lobby, a man and a
woman followed by a medium-sized boy walked into the
hotel. They had the, rumpled look of people who had driven
many miles that day. The boy was wearing jeans, cowboy
boots, and a white T-shirt with the words Happy Acres Camp
stenciled across the front.
Ralph observed the boy with interest. He was the right
kind of boy, a boy sure to like peanut-butter-and-jelly
sandwiches. Since the day Keith had left the hotel, Ralph
had longed for crumbs of a peanut-butter-and-jelly
sandwich.
A grating, grinding noise came from the works of the
grandfather clock. Ralph clapped Ralph Hears a Distant
Bugle his paws over his ears. The clock grumbled and
groaned and managed to strike the hour. Nine o'clock! The
time almost had come. The stroke of nine was followed by
the slow sad notes of music that lingered -and died
mysteriously in the distance every night at this histime.
"Did You hear that?" the man asked the boy. "It was the
bugle at camp playing taps."
So that's what that music is, thought Ralph, who had
puzzled over those notes all summer.
When the boy did not answer, his mother said, "Come on,
Garf, cheer. up. You're going to have a lot of fun at
camp."
"Maybe," answered Garf, "but I doubt it."
The father looked annoyed. "You won't have any fun if you
take that attitude," he said, and went to the desk to
inquire about a room with an extra cot for the night.
Ralph could not understand the boy's behavior. He had
often heard other young guests wearing the same kind of
white T-shirt speak of a place called camp, but unlike
this boy they always sounded eager and excited about going
there. Ralph did not know exactly what a camp was, but
since medium-sized boys and girls went there, he thought
it must be a place where people ate peanut-butter-and-
jelly sandwiches.
The desk clerk summoned old Matt, the elderly bellboy and
hotel handyman, to show the family to their room. As Matt
picked up their suitcases and led the way to the elevator,
he said to Garf, "Well, young fellow, what are you going
to have for breakfast tomorrow? Apple pie or chocolate
cake?"' Matt, who was not always popular with parents, was
always liked by children.
The boy smiled faintly at. Matt's joke as he followed the
old man into the elevator. What that boy needs is a peanut-
butter-and-jelly sandwich, thought Ralph.
When Matt returned to the lobby, Ralph watched him go out -
onto the hotel porch where he stood for, a few minutes
among the empty rocking chairs for his nightly look at the
Ralph Hears a Distant Bugle
stars before he retired for the night. The night clerk, a
college student hired for the summer, came on duty and
settled down on a couch to read a thick book. Ralph's time
almost had come. Sure enough, the clerk read a few pages,
and then lay down on the couch with the book facedown -on
his chest and closed his eyes.
Ralph was free for the night! He darted under the
television set where he had-hidden his motorcycle and the
crash helmet that Keith had made from half a pingpong ball
lined with thistledown. He already had polished the chrome
on his motorcycle by licking his paws and rubbing them
over the dull spots. Now heset his crash 'helmet on his
head, snapped the rubber bind under his chin to hold it in
place, and taking care to keep his tail out of the spokes
mounted his motorcycle. Next he inhaled deeply andwith a
Pb-pb-b-b-bsound, the only sound that will make a
miniature motor-cycle go, sped out from under the
television set and across the carpet.
Pb-pb-b-b-b! Ralph rode across the lobby...
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