Manxmouse (Essential Modern Classic) Page 8

  From down below came the faint piping of a police whistle and the men split up into three groups: one went north, one south and one west. But none came towards where he lay hidden at the top of the cliff. Perhaps they had combed that area before, or having an insufficient force were planning to search in that direction later.

  It was a great piece of good fortune. Manxmouse turned and scrambled as fast as he could back to the copse, but stopped short so as not to alarm the tiger further and squeaked, “Burra Khan! It’s me – Manxmouse! I’m back again.”

  “But it’s no use, is it?” said Burra Khan and his tone was hopeless.

  “As a matter of fact, I have a sort of an idea. It mightn’t work, but it’s worth having a go. If you could move very quietly…”

  “That’s my speciality!” said Burra Khan, and for the first time seemed to take heart. “Do you really think…”

  “Let’s have a try,” said Manxmouse, for he actually did have an idea at the back of his head and was dying to find out if it would work. “But we must wait until it’s dark. Then I’ll lead the way. When I call, come along.”

  They remained hidden until night had fallen. The wind had gone about and started up again, so had the rain, which was a good thing, for it would keep people indoors. Both Manxmouse and Burra Khan had night vision and so this was no problem.

  They progressed slowly but surely. Manxmouse would proceed for thirty or forty yards, then sit up, look, listen and then whisper, “Come on!” A few seconds later, without having made a sound, the great bulk of Burra Khan would be alongside him.

  In this manner they came to the edge of the cliff and peered down. The sight that met them was not encouraging. Although the circus was brightly illuminated with searchlights, no performance was being given for the news of the escaped tiger naturally had been in every newspaper and on radio and television as well. No one was going to risk going out until the beast had either been recaptured or shot. The search party with guns and dogs had returned and was standing about in front of the main tent, discussing the affair.

  “Oh dear, oh dear!” moaned Burra Khan, and lay down with his face between his paws. Great tears rolled from his eyes as he looked upon his empty cage, the door standing open, the other wagons with all his friends. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he repeated, “it’s hopeless.”

  Manxmouse crept close and whispered, “Come on, now, Burra Khan! Buck up! Have a little courage.” And then he almost had to laugh at the idea of a Manx Mouse, no more than two inches tall, telling an enormous tiger to have courage. Yet for all his small size and defencelessness, when it came to doing something for others, there seemed to be nothing Manxmouse would not dare. He said, “There’s my plan. We could try it.”

  “Your plan?” Burra Khan said, lifting his head. “I’d forgotten that. What is it?”

  “I’d rather not say,” said Manxmouse, “in case it doesn’t come off. Can you see whether there’s any way down from this cliff?”

  Burra Khan crept to the edge of the bluff and peered over. He said, “Yes, there are some rocks jutting out and then a tree, and even what seems to be a footpath. Yes, I could make it, but I’d never get past the men with the guns. Can’t you see that?”

  “That’s where my plan comes in,” said Manxmouse. “I shall try to create a diversion.”

  “You?” Burra Khan questioned.

  “I know I’m not very big or brave,” Manxmouse said, “but stay here and wait and wish me luck. If the diversion should take place properly, come down as fast as you can and jump back into your cage.”

  “How will I be able to tell?”

  “You’ll know,” said Manxmouse. “Now, get yourself ready.” And he slipped off into the night, over the cliff, dropped on to the outcropping of rock and thence to the branch of the tree, gained the footpath and made his way down to the circus.

  A mouse, particularly a Manx Mouse coloured blue, with no tail to be stepped on, can go practically anywhere at night without being seen. Manxmouse blended in perfectly with the dark shadows thrown by the bright circus lighting. He crept beneath the beast wagons and cages and avoided the main tent. He skirted where the horses were tethered and at last came to where six enormous Nellyphants, or elephants as Burra Khan had called them, were chained in a row by one hind leg and one fore leg. There they swayed, standing in straw some six inches deep, grumbling, muttering and phoophing to themselves, or picking up bunches of hay with their trunks and scattering it over their backs.

  Manxmouse’s plan for creating a diversion, by which he meant an uproar so that no one would notice the return of the unhappy tiger, was a simple one. It was based upon what he had learned from Nelly.

  He certainly had not the slightest intention of running up inside the trunk of any of the elephants, but when it came to squeaks, rustles in the straw and tickling of feet, he felt that he could do a nice, competent job.

  And so he slipped out of a patch of shadow and quick as a flash disappeared beneath the bedding close by the first elephant in the line.

  She was peaceably thinking elephant thoughts, when suddenly she stopped and her trunk stiffened. “Hoo!” she cried. “What was that? Oh, oh – I felt something.”

  “What’s the matter, dearie?” queried her husband who was swaying next to her.

  “I don’t want to say…” she said, “but I think…” And suddenly she lifted her unchained foot high into the air with a shriek, “Hoo! Oh! Ah! My foot! It’s tickled!” And then raising her trunk on high, she trumpeted the alarm, “Mowwwwwse!”

  Immediately the other elephants took up the cry and the panic was on.

  “Ooooh! Ouch! Help!”

  “Mouse! I felt it! Police! Fire!”

  “Haaaaaaalp! It’s here now, under my feet!”

  “No! I’ve got it! It’s trying to run up my trunk!”

  “Mouse! Mouse! Mouse! Call out the Army!”

  “Ooooooh! It’s going to crawl up my leg! I can’t stand it! Hasn’t anybody got a gun?”

  “It’s squeaking and rustling right under me now! Assistance! To the rescue, somebody!”

  “Come on, boys and girls! Let’s get out of here!”

  And with that, lunging with all their strength, the elephants began to heave at the stakes that held their legs and the night was filled with the rattling of their chains, their shrieks and trumpetings and thumpetings. Manxmouse emerged from under the straw at the other end of the line and sat up to watch the effect. It was far better than ever he had expected.

  Beast men, roustabouts, trainers and performers came pouring out of their wagons at the racket. They were headed by the proprietor of the circus who was shouting, “To the elephants, everybody! Something’s got into them! If they break loose as well as the tiger, I’m ruined!”

  Jingle-jangle! Clangety-clang! Bangety-bang! Smash-crash-bash! Wurroo-wurraa! Poom-Boom! Was there ever such a hullabaloo started up by one small mouse, and a Manx one to boot?

  “Hurry, hurry!” shouted the proprietor. “All of you with the guns get on over here too, but for Heaven’s sake don’t shoot! Just lend a hand. Bring ropes and chains. Where’s that elephant man? Hang on to them! Don’t let them get away!”

  The job had been done. But would Burra Khan have had the courage to take advantage of it? Manxmouse ran around behind the milling, struggling group of elephants. Men were throwing nets over them, catching up their hind feet with more ropes and chains. And Manxmouse was back at the empty cage of Burra Khan just in time to see an orange and black streak flash by at such speed that the wind almost bowled him over, as the tiger sprang through the open door.

  But so controlled was his body that he made not a sound as he landed on the floor. Once safely there, he whipped about, stuck out a huge paw, hooked two claws into the bars of the door and pulled. It clanged shut as the automatic catch clicked and, with a tremendous sigh of relief, Burra Khan flopped down crying, “Made it! Manxmouse, old boy, you’re the greatest! I never thought to see the day when I’d be rescu
ed by a herd of loony elephants and a mouse, but it just goes to show that you never know. I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” Manxmouse said modestly. “I only hope I haven’t made too much trouble…” and he looked anxiously over his shoulder in the direction of the hubbub.

  “Oh, they’ll manage,” said Burra Khan.

  And indeed, the racket, hooting and uproar from the elephant pitch had already begun to die down as the circus men mastered the struggling beasts. The trainer, with admirable presence of mind, had swept their ground clear of straw and hay to show there wasn’t a sign of any mouse there and that the whole thing had been imaginary.

  Soon peace and quiet was entirely restored and the performers returned to their wagons once more.

  A handsome, dark-haired young man clad in whipcord breeches, shiny leather boots and a white shirt which was soaked with perspiration, for he had been one of those who had worked the hardest to control the elephants, came walking slowly towards the cage. His shoulders slumped and he looked weary and despondent, his eyes cast down towards the ground.

  Burra Khan made a strange, soft noise in his throat, whereupon the young man looked up and saw him. He gave a mighty and joyous shout, “Burra Khan!” then he ran to the cage, ripped open the door, hurled himself inside, and the next moment he and Burra Khan were hugging one another. The trainer, of course, for that was who it was, rubbed the animal’s head and pulled his ears, and the tiger purred and crooned over the man and licked his face and hands and Manxmouse was mightily pleased.

  At that moment the proprietor appeared and saw what was happening, and he almost fainted.

  “He came back!” the trainer cried to him. “I knew he never really meant to leave me, did you, old fellow,” and he rubbed the tiger’s head and hugged it hard to him, and Burra Khan just purred and purred.

  Nor was the proprietor slow to take advantage of such good luck. “Well, then,” he cried, “we’ll put on a show tonight. Send out a broadcast! Put it on the radio and the telly that the danger’s over and the tiger’s back. Get ready, everybody!”

  Immediately the circus lot was a-bustle with preparations, for it wouldn’t take long to spread the news of the return of the tiger, and curiosity to see him would bring out more people than ever. Manxmouse and Burra Khan were left alone for a moment, while the trainer went to dress and fetch a curry comb and brush.

  Manxmouse said, “Do you think I might stay and watch? I’ve never seen a circus.”

  Burra Khan now lay down with his head close to the bars of his safely locked cage and said softly with a strange air of tenderness in one ordinarily so fierce, “Manxmouse, come closer. I want to talk to you.”

  Manxmouse did so and sat up by the wagon where he could look into the glowing eyes of Burra Khan.

  The tiger said, “You know you’ve saved not only my life, but my happiness, and his happiness too,” and Manxmouse knew he meant the trainer he loved. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. But you cannot stay. I’d like you to be with us always, and travel with us. But if the proprietor ever found out you’d started the panic amongst the elephants, he’d never forgive you. An elephant stampede is a terrible thing. You’d be killed. You must go. Besides, there’s your rendezvous with Manx Cat, isn’t there?”

  Manxmouse sighed. Must all his adventures, even the happiest ones, end on this note? Yet he did understand that the tiger was sending him away because he did not want him to be harmed by the circus people. He said, “Well, perhaps I’ll see a performance some other time, then. I’d better be going. Goodbye, Burra Khan.”

  “Goodbye, Manxmouse.”

  The mouse turned about and started off in the direction of the highway, when out of the darkness he heard the voice of Burra Khan calling, “Manxmouse! Oh, Manxmouse…”

  He stopped and called back, “Yes, Burra Khan?”

  “Listen to me. You thought I was Manx Cat the first time you saw me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did,” Manxmouse admitted.

  “But you weren’t afraid.”

  “Oh, yes, I was.”

  “But you didn’t run.”

  “Perhaps I was too scared.”

  “I don’t think so. I just wanted to say, Manxmouse, that you are braver than I am and if you aren’t frightened, nothing can hurt you. Remember that.”

  “Thank you, Burra Khan. I’ll try.” Feeling strangely sad, the mouse continued on to the road where a lorry had just drawn up while the driver adjusted the ropes holding the canvas that had come loose on the far side. Manxmouse climbed up the inner wheel, entered and settled down to let it take him where it would.

  Chapter Nine

  THE STORY OF THE GREEDY PET SHOP PROPRIETOR

  THIS TIME MANXMOUSE was not quite so fortunate in his choice of travel.

  Actually it began most marvellously, when he discovered that his lorry was carrying boxes upon boxes of breakfast cereals.

  There were so many different brands that he hardly knew where to begin. So he started at the top and ate down through Puffed Wheat, Cornflakes, Puffed Rice and All-Bran. Then he had some Sugar Puffs, which were delicious, followed by Rice Krispies and Weetabix. His exertions getting Burra Khan back into his cage had left him very hungry and so he gnawed his way through Honey Smacks, Grapenuts and Shredded Wheat, having a little of each and finishing with several other varieties with names ending in ‘pop’, ‘snap’ or ‘crackle’.

  By this time he was so full that he could hardly budge, and weary as well. So he curled up immediately and went to sleep.

  But here was where the ill luck commenced. For the weather was still bad; the wind had been plucking at the canvas covering at the back of the lorry and now it was the other side that came loose and began to flap. The driver caught sight of it in his rear-view mirror, stopped and climbed down to secure it. And having stopped near a street lamp his eyes fell not only upon Manxmouse blissfully snoring, but on his trail down through the boxes.

  The driver swore, then said, “Well, you’ve been ’aving yerself a time, ’aven’t yer?” He prepared to hit Manxmouse a bash that would have finished him off. But even as his fist was raised and he was about to bring it down, the light from the lamp glinted from Manxmouse’s coat. The blow was halted in mid air while the man had a closer inspection and said, “’Ello! You’re a funny-looking creature. I’ve never seen nuffink like you before.”

  Manxmouse had eaten himself into such a stupor that he snored on. The driver picked him up in the palm of his hand and examined him from all angles. Manxmouse never budged.

  “Might be able to flog ’im for a couple of bob,” the fellow said to himself. And so instead of crushing Manxmouse as he had planned, he slipped him into his pocket, firmly fastened the loose canvas, climbed back into his seat and drove off through the blustery night.

  Manxmouse continued to sleep peacefully and happily all the way to London.

  He woke when he heard voices.

  “’E’s worth a quid if ’e’s worth a penny. You ain’t never seen one like that.”

  “Go on! A quid for a mouse? I sell ’em for a shilling each. Give you sixpence.”

  “Coo, guvnor, you ain’t ’arf a sharp one! Sixpence for the likes of ’im? Wotcher got in here? Ordinary mice! Look at this little fella. Make it ten bob and you can ’ave ’im.” It was daylight; they were indoors. Manxmouse was being held in the palm of a horny hand and two faces were bent over him, one a rough and rugged countenance, the lorry driver. The other was a narrow one, with eyes set somewhat too close together, topped by an almost completely bald head across which four remaining strands of greasy dark hair had been laid.

  Manxmouse became aware that he was in some kind of shop and that the faces were haggling over him.

  “Give you two bob.”

  “That you won’t! I’d sooner knock ’im on the ’ead and dump ’im into the river. Make it seven-and-six. ’E’s ate up arf the load orf me lorry.”

  �
�Five bob and not a penny more.”

  “It’s a deal, guvnor!”

  There was the chink of money. Manxmouse was transferred to another hand and almost immediately popped into a cage and then he saw where he was and what had happened. He had been sold to the proprietor of the Take Me Home Pet Shop in Horsecollar Lane, London EC3.

  Here there was every variety of small animal on sale and the noise was deafening: the yapping and whining of puppies, the squeaking of mice and squawking of parrots, the chittering of guinea pigs, cooing of doves and the chattering of monkeys. The only things that were silent were the rabbits - white, brown and black Angora, and goldfish cruising slowly about their tanks.

  It seemed to be a well-stocked pet shop but Manxmouse had yet to find out what kind of man the owner was.

  For the proprietor, a Mr Smeater, was not exactly honest. His puppies which he advertized as pedigreed and which looked adorable whilst snoozing or wrestling in his window, invariably grew up to be yellow mongrels with huge feet and long, curly tails.

  His Angora rabbits were ordinary plain ones dyed and his canaries were sparrows coloured orange. His goldfish were not gold, and his monkeys, guaranteed as wonderful companions to a child, were nasty and bad tempered.

  The kittens to which he gave fancy names were alley cats, and he paid a penny apiece for mice which he sold for a shilling. His parrots had never spoken a word in their lives and never would. When a customer came into the shop, Mr Smeater would switch on a tape recorder and immediately the parrots would appear to be saying, “Hello, Polly! Pretty Polly! I like you. Polly wants a biscuit. Give us a kiss!” and other similarly absurd sentences that people seem to enjoy hearing parrots utter.

  It might also be added here that Mr Smeater had a second tape recorder which, when turned on, made the fake canaries appear to be singing like mad things.

  The guinea pigs, which he sold as males, were invariably females and shortly after leaving his shop were practically certain to produce a litter. When people complained, he would tell them they were lucky to get twelve guinea pigs for the price of one.