I Was a Rat!

  All the other children were enjoying this no end, and as soon as she turned away, someone else flicked another rubber band. Roger shouted again and spun round to find Mrs. Cribbins making for him with her hand raised.

  Whether she would have smacked him or not no one knew, because she didn’t get any closer. Roger, seeing a threat, leapt up to bite her hand.

  He got a good mouthful of it and shook hard, and Mrs. Cribbins shrieked and whacked him with her other hand, and the two of them struggled back and forth while the other children gasped with delight. Of course, the more she struggled, the more frightened Roger became and the tighter he bit, until at last she tugged her hand away. Roger, wild-eyed, was trembling and panting with his back to the wall, and no one was laughing anymore.

  “Right,” said Mrs. Cribbins, “that’s it for you, my lad.”

  The door opened. There was the Head.

  “What is all this noise?” he demanded.

  “Look!” said Mrs. Cribbins, holding up her hand. “Look what this child has done! He’s drawn blood! I’m bleeding!”

  Actually she had to squeeze quite hard to force a drop of blood out, but it was real blood, sure enough.

  The room was full of wide-open eyes, staring at the Head, at Mrs. Cribbins, at Roger.

  The Head seemed to get bigger and bigger, and Roger to get smaller and smaller.

  “Come with me,” said the Head in a dangerous voice.

  All the children knew that voice. It was the voice that meant he was going to use the cane. He didn’t use it very often, but the occasions when he did were terrifying. There would be a deep silence over the whole school and a sick feeling in everyone’s stomach, and no one would dare to look at the victim before he went into the dreadful place where he’d be beaten or to speak to him after he came out, sniffling and limping. And everyone would be quiet and unhappy for a day or so afterward.

  And now Roger was going to be caned, and everyone knew it but him.

  He thought the Head was taking him away from the cruel woman who’d frightened him, so he smiled up at him and said, “You can make lines on paper with them things. I thought they was called patients at first, but they got other names too. I never knew you could make lines with ’em.”

  All the children sat open-mouthed. How could this new boy dare to speak to the Head in this familiar, friendly way? It was the cheekiest thing they’d ever heard. Some of them felt shocked, and some felt gleeful at the thought of the extra punishment he’d surely get, and some felt admiration.

  “This way,” said the Head.

  Roger followed.

  Silence fell over the classroom. Mrs. Cribbins ran some water over her hand and dried it on her handkerchief and took a bandage from her handbag and carefully placed it over the bite. The children watched her solemnly without making a sound.

  Then, just as she was opening her mouth to tell them to turn back to their work, there came a wild scream from down the corridor.

  No one had ever heard a scream like that. When a boy went to be caned, he tried as hard as he could to make no noise at all, and some of the toughest ones managed to stop themselves even from whimpering and were greatly admired for it. But not even the most babyish victim would have screamed as long and as wildly as Roger was screaming. The sound seemed to drill into everyone’s head and scrape round and round in their skulls. Some of them put their hands over their ears.

  Those who didn’t block off the sound soon heard other sounds too: the Head’s voice raised in anger, furniture crashing, doors banging, footsteps running down the corridor—it was the most exciting arithmetic lesson they’d ever had.

  “Look, he’s running away!” shouted a girl, and pointed out at the schoolyard.

  Roger was racing for the gate, with the Head in red-faced pursuit. All the children crowded to the window to watch, ignoring Mrs. Cribbins’s efforts to make them sit down. They jumped and clapped and laughed with shocked delight as Roger fought and screamed and bit and kicked and finally tore himself free, leaving the Head flailing at the empty air behind him.

  Then Roger scrambled up and over the gate in a second or so and vanished round the corner.

  No Escape

  Roger ran in terror through the streets and alleys till he came to the marketplace, where he ran up and down between the stalls, looking this way and that and gulping and shaking with sobs. His face was wet, and his nose was running, and he looked a thorough mess.

  Finally he got down on all fours and crawled under the cheese stall and made for the drainpipe in the corner, but that was a bad mistake. He wasn’t quite as small as he thought he was, and before he knew what was happening, he’d knocked away one of the trestles holding the stall up.

  At once the whole top fell down. Cheeses rolled, slid, flopped, and bounced in all directions. Somehow, every dog in the area suddenly learned that there was free cheese in the marketplace, and within seconds a yapping, barking mob was making for the overturned stall. Roger was terrified of dogs, and when he saw them coming, he screamed and cowered in a corner, where it was easy to catch him.

  And five minutes later, Roger was in the police station again.

  “Who’s that?” said the sergeant as the constable came back to report his arrest. “Little boy in page’s uniform? Let me look at him.”

  Roger was crouching in the corner when the sergeant opened the cell door, and as soon as he saw daylight he tried to dart out, but the sergeant grabbed him.

  “Ah, I thought it was you,” he said. “Born troublemaker, you are. As soon as I heard the words market and cheese, I remembered you, just like that. Good thing I made a record of your address. See how your old auntie and uncle feel about coming down here to bail you out.”

  When Bob arrived, he wasn’t pleased at all.

  “Well, Sergeant?” he said across the counter. “What’s the boy done? Last thing I knew, he was at school.”

  “Ah,” said the sergeant triumphantly, “well, he ain’t anymore. And he’s in real trouble, your lad. Mayhem and criminal damage. I shouldn’t wonder if it amounted to riot. Bring him out, Constable.”

  “Riot? How can one little boy have a riot all on his own?”

  The constable came out with Roger firmly in his grip. As soon as the boy saw Bob, he smiled up with happy relief.

  “Ah, I was worried,” he said. “It was all because I started to worry. But I wouldn’t have got worried if the Head hadn’t hit me.”

  “He hit you?” said Bob. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s strange,” said Roger. “She just called him a Head, but he wasn’t only a head. I thought he was just a head, on a table maybe, or he might have had a little stand, and I wanted to see it work. But he had arms and legs and everything. And I didn’t know what he was going to do. He made me bend over, and I thought he was going to play leapfrog like I seen ’em in the playground, only suddenly whoosh! He hit my tail with a blooming stick! Ooh, that hurt awful. I wished he was a head with no arms and legs, then he wouldn’t be able to hurt boys like that. So I ran away, and I got in a muddle with the cheese. Then they caught me and put me in that room in there. Can we go now?”

  “Sergeant, this ain’t a desperate criminal,” said Bob. “This is a little boy who don’t know what’s what. You ain’t going to use the whole majesty of the law to punish a little boy for a bit of mischief, are you?”

  “What about the damage to my stall?” demanded the cheesemonger, who had just arrived. “And all my cheeses! Who’s going to pay for them?”

  Bob’s heart sank. “I suppose I’ll have to pay for the damage,” he said. “Make up the account and send it to me. I’m not a rich man, mind.”

  “Sergeant,” said the constable, “ain’t this the boy who had some tale about being a rat?”

  “Yes,” said Roger eagerly. “I had a tail, all right. It was a good ’un.”

  “Be quiet,” said the sergeant sternly. “Rats don’t belong in decent society. They ought to be exterminated.”


  Roger didn’t know what exterminated meant, of course, but he didn’t like the sound of it. He clung tight to Bob and said nothing.

  They agreed that Bob would pay for the cheese and that Roger would behave himself in the future.

  “And if I see you back here,” the sergeant said, “you’ll be in terrible trouble. Don’t you forget it.”

  THE DAILY SCOURGE

  SPARE THE ROD, SPOIL THE CHILD

  Six members of Parliament are standing out against the proposal to ban the cane in schools.

  “It made me the man I am!” claimed Sir Bernard Brute, M.P. “Children today are getting out of control. They must be beaten hard and often.”

  Some teachers claim that the cane has no place in the caring and compassionate society they want to bring about.

  “It’s a relic of the Middle Ages,” said a teacher yesterday. “We no longer need to rely on torture to encourage good behavior.”

  But other teachers disagree.

  “There is a hard core of violent hooligans in our schools,” said Mr. George Hackett, Head of St. Lawrence’s Primary School. “If we take away the cane, we will leave teachers without the power to defend themselves.”

  THE SCOURGE SAYS:

  KEEP ON WHACKING!

  These feeble so-called experts who say that the cane is cruel are helping no one.

  A quick smack never did a child any harm.

  And in today’s schools, there are some little brutes and bullies who could do with a taste of the cane to keep them in order.

  Support the cane!

  Vote in our readers’ poll on page 10.

  A Curious and Interesting Case

  It was a fine sunny morning, and the Philosopher Royal was taking a nap.

  Normally at this time of day, the King liked to chat with the Philosopher Royal over a cup of coffee and a biscuit, discussing things like why toast always fell on the buttered side or whether flies looped the loop before landing on the ceiling. But with the Royal Family away at the Hotel Splendifico while the Palace was being decorated for the Royal Wedding, there was little call for philosophy.

  The servant who woke the Philosopher Royal up for lunch was a cousin of the constable who’d arrested Roger, and he told him all about it, knowing the old man’s curious turn of mind.

  “Said he was a rat?”

  “Said he used to be a rat, sir. He was ever so sure about it. My cousin said it give him a creepy feeling all up his spine. He don’t like rats.”

  The Philosopher Royal made a note of the policeman’s name, and after lunch he went to the police station to ask about the case. The sergeant was very impressed to see his card.

  “Now when I see the word philosopher in connection with the word royal,” he said, “I wonder whether I’m right guessing that you might have met the Prince’s fiancée. What’s she like? Is she as pretty as she looks in her pictures?”

  The Philosopher Royal told him she was. “But this boy who says he’s a rat,” he went on. “Have you got his address?”

  “Not is,” said the sergeant. “He said he used to be but he isn’t anymore. Oh, yes, it’s all on file.” The sergeant read out Bob and Joan’s address. “But you be warned by me,” he said, “that boy’s a bad influence, rat or no rat. He’ll come to a bad end.”

  “I am most grateful,” said the Philosopher Royal. “Good day to you.”

  —

  In the cobbler’s shop, Bob was waxing some thread.

  “Morning, sir,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “You are Mr. Bob Jones? Guardian of the boy called Roger?”

  Bob looked alarmed. Then he looked careful. “What’s he done now?” he said.

  “I would like to see him. Is he home?”

  “He’s in the laundry room, helping my wife. You got to keep an eye on him, else he eats the soap. But who might you be, sir?”

  “My interest is purely philosophical. May I see the boy?”

  “Well, I don’t see why not. Step this way, sir…”

  Bob led the Philosopher Royal into the laundry room, which was full of warm steamy air. Joan was stirring some sheets in hot water with a big stick, and Roger was feeding a pillowcase into the wringer and squeezing the water out, tasting it from time to time.

  “Mrs. Jones?” said the Philosopher Royal. “And Roger?”

  Joan dried her hands and gathered Roger close to her. He peered up at the Philosopher Royal, his bright black eyes wide.

  “Did you want some washing done, sir?” said Joan.

  “No, no. My washing is done by the Palace laundry-maids. I was hoping for a brief talk with your—er—with the young—with Roger.”

  “He’s not in trouble, is he, sir?” she said anxiously.

  “No, no,” said the Philosopher Royal, “this is a purely philosophical investigation.”

  “Well, I suppose you could talk in the parlor if you liked…” she said, and led them through to a little room that smelled of furniture polish. “I’ll leave you to get on with it,” she said, “because I’ve got a lot of washing to get through. Now, Roger, you be a good boy, and answer the gentleman politely. No nibbling.”

  When Joan had left, the Philosopher Royal sat down and looked at Roger: a little boy of eight or nine, perhaps, dressed in a uniform.

  “Now, Roger,” he began, “why are you wearing a page boy’s uniform?”

  “I dunno. I expect I forgot, but I’m not sure. If I could remember whether I’d forgot it, I’d know if I had, but I probably forgot without remembering it.”

  The Philosopher Royal was used to problems of epistemology, so he made sense of that with no trouble at all.

  “I see,” he said. “Now, would you let me examine you properly? It won’t hurt,” he added.

  “I expect so,” said Roger.

  The Philosopher Royal was thinking of the book he’d write about this. What a discovery! There’d been children brought up by wolves before, but no one had ever studied a child brought up by rats. It would make him famous! Rubbing his hands together, the Philosopher Royal left Roger chewing one of the tassels off a lampshade and went to speak to Bob.

  “You want to take him away?” said Bob, frowning.

  “Just to make some tests, you know—weigh him, measure him, that sort of thing. To see how a human child is affected by being among rats. It’s a question of exceptional philosophical importance.”

  “But when he was among rats, he weren’t a human child,” said Bob. “He was a rat.”

  “Well, of course he wasn’t really a rat,” said the Philosopher Royal, thinking how simple these people were.

  “Hmm,” said Bob. “You bring him back here this evening, and don’t you hurt him. I don’t know what legal responsibility we got, but he come to us and knocked, and that’s good enough for me. And he’s a lovely little feller, for all his chewing. You look after him proper.”

  “No question about that,” said the Philosopher Royal.

  Roger had finished off all the tassels except one. Bob sighed and snapped off the last one and dropped it into the little boy’s hand.

  “I dunno how you digest some of this, I really don’t,” he said.

  “No,” said Roger. “It’s a mystery to me.”

  “Now you go along with this gentleman and do as he says, all right? And he’ll bring you back in time for supper.”

  Roger bowed good-bye to Bob and went out happily with the Philosopher Royal.

  A Philosophical Investigation

  On the way up the Palace staircase, Roger said, “I been here before.”

  “Are you sure, my boy?” said the Philosopher Royal.

  “Oh, yes. I slid down the banisters.”

  The Philosopher Royal thought: Cannot distinguish truth from fantasy.

  Once they were in his study, the first thing he did was to weigh Roger, and then he measured him, and then he listened to his heart, and then he counted his teeth. He didn’t learn much, but he did notice that Roger had perfectly hum
an teeth, not a bit like a rat’s. There was no point in looking for a tail: the boy was human all the way down, no doubt about it.

  “Now then, Roger,” said the Philosopher Royal, “let’s do some mental tests. What is two and three?”

  “Two and three what?” said Roger, very puzzled.

  “Well, if you have two things, and you add three more, how many have you got?”

  “Ah, that depends. If they’re really little things you still wouldn’t have very much, but if they’re big things you couldn’t even carry ’em,” Roger explained.

  “Yes, I see. What’s half of four?”

  “Cheese,” said Roger. “Cheddar. Quarter of four’s Cheddar too. Quarter of five’d be Stilton. One is Lancashire, two is Wensleydale—”

  “I don’t understand,” said the Philosopher Royal, writing everything down.

  “Well, they come to the stall and they ask for half a pound of number four, and that’s Cheddar, or a quarter pound of number five, and that’s Stilton. I likes that one. You get worms in it. Only sometimes they say just ‘half’ instead of ‘half a pound,’ that’s how I knew what you meant. You got to keep your wits about you,” he told the Philosopher Royal.

  “Oh, indeed. Now tell me, when did you learn to speak?”

  “When I changed into a boy.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t really change, did you? You were a boy all the time. Perhaps you thought you were a rat. But rats can’t—”

  “I never thought at all when I was a rat! I just was! So I never thought I was a rat. I never started thinking till I was a boy. Now I think I’m a boy. But it’s making me confused. I hope I don’t get irritated.”

  “All right,” said the Philosopher Royal nervously. He wasn’t used to dealing with children, after all, and he might have expected them to be irrational. But even the King was more rational than this child. “Don’t get upset,” he went on. “Now, I’m just going to ask you some questions about the world we live in. Do you know the name of the Prime Minister?”

  Roger laughed as if the Philosopher Royal had made a joke.