I, Houdini

  Some time later she brought me a dish of food and some water, but by that time I was comfortably asleep and I didn’t find it till I woke up in the evening.

  Evenings are always my active time. I had had a good sleep, despite my upset, and when I’d had something to eat, I felt ready for anything. And soon enough things started to happen.

  Mark arrived. He was wearing gloves now, thick leather ones, though if he had but known it, there was no need for them—nothing short of a direct attack on me would have induced me to bite him. Very cautiously he reached down and, after a short chase—I was not anxious to be picked up—caught and lifted me.

  Now, I have said I don’t like being held—not for long periods. But I don’t mind sitting in between two warm hands, well supported by the one below and gently stroked by the one above. This pleasant experience now happened to me for the first time. I was nervous, of course, and trembled a good bit, but Mark has a feeling for animals and I sensed this at once, the way one can. He put his face close to me and his warm, boy-smelling breath came over me. I don’t know why, but being breathed on by a human gives one confidence, provided, of course, one does not instinctively sense danger. There was nothing menacing about Mark’s breath, and his face looked kind and interested.

  We stared and breathed at each other for some moments. Then I tried to get away. I always do this after being held for a short time. It’s really no more than a natural restlessness. Mark endeared himself to me by understanding this. He relaxed his upper hand and let me run up his arm. He was wearing a woolen sweater that gave me ample footholds—I love climbing up rough knitted surfaces—and I was soon exploring his shoulders, poking my nose between his collar and his neck, and even sniffing around his pink ears. He wriggled and giggled. I suppose I was tickling him. After a while he lifted me down again, stroked me soothingly for a few minutes more, and then laid me gently on his knee.

  Now it shouldn’t be thought that I had been deliberately lulling him into a sense of false security by not trying to escape before. I was too far from the ground then, and I knew it. But now he was sitting down and I had only to make a dash head-first down his trouser leg and I was on the floor and running like mad.

  Mark dived after me, but too late. I had dashed under the frill of a sofa cover, and by the time he had lifted it to peer underneath, I was already three pieces of furniture away, crouching beneath a desk. The next thing was an upright piano, but there was quite a gap between the desk and it, and I could see Mark’s shoes, turning slowly in the middle of the floor, watching for me to make a dash. I waited till the heels were toward me and then I ran. Ran! I skimmed. Mark just caught a glimpse of me and spun round, but too late! I was safely behind the piano and there was nothing he could do about it.

  It was not a very well-made piano, and it was easy enough to get in through a hole in the back. The innards were fascinating, quite the most exciting playground I had ever been in. Human athletes, whom I have seen on television, have gyms to exercise in, with all sorts of apparatus. Hamsters have pianos—at least, they should all have them, if humans were understanding enough or the hamsters themselves were cunning enough to escape and find them. I would certainly recommend a good upright piano to any hamster who fancied himself as an athlete.

  It was in my piano that I first learned muscle control, agility, how to fall correctly, how to swing by front and back paws, how to jump horizontally, diagonally, and vertically, and of course, how to climb. I mean really climb, where some might find the going impossible. Nothing could be more useful, believe me, in the life of an escapologist who frequently has to fend and forage for himself. If I had not trained in the piano, I doubt if I could have navigated the vegetable rack, let alone climbed up into the biscuit drawer, three shelves up in the kitchen cupboard. … But I must not get ahead of my story.

  Well! If I had enjoyed my freedom in the Father’s workroom, how much more did I enjoy the fun of my freedom in the piano! I may say that before the night was out I had thoroughly explored most of its lower half, though I was not yet skillful enough to mount to its higher regions. I was fortunate in one thing. It should have been perfectly dark in there, for how could light get in? Yet it was not. Quite a lot of light filtered down from somewhere above, as if through a window, and until the family (who had given up hunting for me) had gone to bed, switching off the lights, I was able to enjoy myself, clambering around swinging, diving, and so on, to my heart’s content.

  When the darkness did come, I was able to come out of the piano (I was still small and supple enough in those days to squeeze through the holes around the pedals) and give the whole living room a good going-over before bedding down in the wastepaper basket among the bits of paper and cigarette packets. I was completely hidden and felt quite safe.

  Alas! The short jump I had had to make to get down into the basket from the upholstered chair had misled me—I thought in my ignorance it would be equally easy to get out. But the sides of this container were not wicker, but metal, and thus in the morning I was speedily detected because of my frantic scrabblings among the rustling papers.

  Back to the bin. But I was not in despair this time. Experience had taught me that opportunities for escape would present themselves if I waited patiently. And so they did.

  Chapter 3

  How I hated that bin! Even with the shavings, and various bits and pieces the boys put in from time to time, it was a loathsome dungeon to me. Not only could I not get out, I couldn’t see out. There was no way to take any real exercise; nothing to play with (I was still a youngster then and needed toys) and nothing to do. No challenges. No opportunities. No amusements. Only—after that first blissful outing—hope.

  I was taken out fairly frequently, once the boys realized that that one bite had been an aberration. They all became fond of me (as I of them, in a way) and liked to take me out and play with me, especially as an alternative to helping their Mother, doing their homework, or practicing the piano. (I’m sorry to say not one of them is what I’d call diligent.)

  But it was not every time that I could elude them. They were obviously pretty careful after my escape from Mark. I don’t blame them for that. It became clear to me from the beginning that our views and objectives were, and presumably always would be, quite different—even opposed. They regarded me as their pet, their plaything—their possession. They wanted to know where I was, to know that I was available whenever they wanted me. I knew myself to be a freedom-loving individual, belonging to no one. I wanted to be free, to live my own life in my own way. It wasn’t so much that I positively objected to being fed, petted, and played with. I just knew, right from the start, that the whole business of my life was to be—escape.

  The boys soon knew it too. That was why they changed my name. This happened after I’d been in the house about a week and had escaped four times. The fourth time I ran away from Adam.

  Adam, who is a bit of a fibber, will tell you I bit him. Nonsense. No need. Adam is a highly imaginative child—not a coward at all, but hampered by being able to picture to himself what may happen and how certain unpleasant eventualities would hurt. Thus one only has to give a sudden jump in his hand and he will drop one like a hot brick. Sometimes it’s enough to turn one’s head swiftly toward his thumb, without even baring one’s teeth.… The thing is not to do it when he is standing up, and always to be ready for the drop when he lets go.

  I first tried this out when he had me in his bed one night. I think I dimly realized even then that he was disobeying his Mother when he stealthily carried me up the darkened stairway into his room. There he switched on a flashlight under the blankets and trained it on me while I scurried about in the soft, warm caves, looking, as ever, for a way out. Finally he tired of this game and scooped me up in his hand, dangling me over the edge of the bed. That was when, sensing his slight uneasiness, I tried out my little jump.

  It worked splendidly. In another moment, I was on the floor—I landed quite well for a novice, rolling over once
to break my fall—and the next second I was bolting for the fireplace.

  What made me go for that, I don’t know. In a newer sort of house (such as I spent some time in later), I would have found my way blocked by some gas or electrical barrier. But this was an old house, and the original fireplaces were still there. No fire, of course; but a grate, and the iron bars the fire is made on. I got down through a broken bar and lay in the ashy darkness while poor Adam scampered round with his flashlight, fruitlessly hunting for me. I heard him desperately whispering, “Goldy! Goldy!” My sympathy was aroused, for I knew he would get into trouble; but I was not going to let myself be “binned” again just for that.

  I lay still. I’d learned that they could often locate me by sound. After a while, the poor child crept back into bed. I heard him sniffing to himself a bit. Then the flashlight went off, and all was quiet.

  I quietly climbed through the gap onto the bars, and from there I made my way to the corner at the back of the fireplace. The bricks were rough and covered with old soot and cinders clinging to the wall. Just for fun, I began to climb, all my four feet outspread, clinging with all my claws. Rough surface or not, it was sheer. Up and up I climbed, until I found myself on a little sloping ledge. I didn’t realize I was right up inside the chimney. I could feel cold air coming down, and by looking up, I could see vast distances into a starry sky. I’d never seen Outdoors before, even through a window. It frightened me—yes. But it intrigued me too.

  I couldn’t sleep on this ledge, and I didn’t fancy climbing any higher, so I slid down again into the grate. Then I began to explore the room.

  Young as I was, I knew where the entrance to the room was because of the draft of air blowing under the door. I knew that through there lay absolute freedom. I snuffled the length of the draft and, finding a crack that led upward, decided that was the place to chew. I settled down to it. The carpet was easy and I soon had a pile, almost as big as myself, of red fluff heaped around me. Finding this didn’t open the door, I began on the wood of the door itself.

  A grown-up would have woken at the gnawing noise I was making, but Adam slept placidly on, snoring slightly. It was lovely to gnaw. I hadn’t realized the joy of it till I really got down to it. I loved the feeling of the hard, resistant wood, gradually being worn away by my teeth, and wearing the teeth away at the same time—something that must happen if my teeth, which grow all the time, are not to grow right through my cheeks and lips. I had no notion, of course, that I was doing anything wrong. I gnawed until I had quite forgotten what I was trying to do. The gnawing became an end in itself.

  At last I sensed that morning was coming. I was healthily and happily tired—and frightfully thirsty, of course. I could smell water in the room and soon traced it to its source. It was on a wooden chair beside Adam’s bed. That chair was no easy matter to climb, for its legs were smooth and it had only one bar. Four or five times I fell back before I finally made it to the seat, but there was my reward—a mug of water. It was too tall for me to drink out of easily, so I stood erect and put my front paws onto the rim.

  In another moment I was on the floor, soaked to the skin.

  It gave me a fright, I can tell you. Of course I know better now than to tip a full mug of water over myself. And I hadn’t even had a drink! Luckily Adam sleeps like a log. Despite the clatter he just grunted, rolled over—and silence fell once more; so I was able to creep back to the leg of the chair and drink as much as I liked from the little trickle that was still pouring from above like a hamster-sized waterfall.

  Feeling, despite my few blunders, quite satisfied with my night’s work, I now returned to the grate and made myself a scratch nest among the ancient ashes, which were remarkably snug and comfortable. I could have done with some protection overhead when full daylight came, and I can’t say I slept well. In any case I was soon woken by the most fearful hullabaloo. This was because Mark had found I was not in the bin. Suspicion at once fell on Guy (suspicion always tends to fall on Guy because he’s naturally mischievous), but Adam, though, as I’ve said, not an entirely truthful boy, was not one to stand by and see his little brother falsely accused. I’m pleased to say he owned up. After that the entire family descended on his room—and then the real ruckus began.

  I had already picked up some of their speech, so I can give more or less verbatim the scene that followed.

  “Crumbs, what’s all this mess by the door?”

  “Look at the carpet! He’s gnawed it right to the backing!”

  “Never mind the damn carpet—” (This was the Father, fairly roaring with rage.) “Look what it’s done to the wood!” (The Father always, I found, referred to me as “it.”) “Wasn’t it enough that we had to spend a fortune getting the telephone wire replaced? Are we going to have to have new carpets and new doors all over the house?”

  “Adam, how could you?” (The Mother, very reproachful.)

  Adam began boo-hooing. “I only wanted to play with him—”

  “So why did you let him go, stupid?” This was Mark, very superior.

  Then came the lie direct. Well, I don’t blame him. He was on the spot, poor boy. “He bit me and I dropped him!”

  “Let me see the place,” said the Mother, instantly concerned.

  “Yeah, let’s see it—if it’s there,” said Mark in quite a different tone.

  “It—it healed in the night.”

  “Huh! A likely tale,” said the Father. “Now you children listen to me! That wretched little house wrecker (he meant me!) is to be found, caught, and put in the bin. Furthermore, it is to stay there until a cage can be bought for it.”

  “Fanny’s giving us a proper hamster cage for Christmas,” said Guy. Fanny, I was to learn, was their grandmother.

  I’d been trying to ignore the whole row and get to sleep till that point, but now I pricked up my ears. I didn’t like the word “cage” one bit. Still … it had to be better than that vile bin.

  “CHRISTMAS!” yelled the Father. “That’s three weeks away! The little beast (me again!) will bring the whole house down around our ears if we don’t do something about it before then!”

  “Maybe we could ask Fanny to give it to us now.”

  “Good. Do that. Buy it today. But meanwhile nothing—no playing, no television, no food—until that thing’s been caught and incarcerated in the bin where I can keep an eye on it!”

  Well!

  There wasn’t much option for me after that but to scuttle across the floor and let them catch me. Very self-sacrificing of me, wasn’t it? Still, knowing that a proper home was in the offing, and that in all probability my stay in the bin that day would be my last, I decided to be decent and spare the poor kids the useless agony of hunting for me.

  I was rewarded for my noble action with the most ear-splitting shouts the moment they saw me. If only hamsters could cover their ears!

  “Holy Mackerel! Look at him!”

  “He’s not golden anymore—he’s black!”

  I hadn’t stopped to think what I must look like. All my fur was stained with soot and thick with ashes. The water had just made me look more filthy and bedraggled. Of course I should have taken time to clean myself before settling down to sleep. It was another useful lesson for me, and never since have I let a day pass without giving myself a thorough licking and grooming.

  Mark was holding me in his hands and scolding me.

  “You bad, bad hamster!”

  I stared at him defiantly.

  “We can’t call you Goldy anymore. You’re not worthy of such a nice name.”

  “I know what we ought to call it,” said the Father grumpily as he went out. “Housebreaker.”

  “No,” said the Mother. “I know! Let’s call him after the great escapologist—Houdini.”

  And that’s how I got my true name. And when I found out about my namesake, believe me I was proud of it.

  Chapter 4

  Of course, the children wanted to know all about Houdini, and so did I, as you may
imagine. The Mother put them off for the moment, but that night, when they were ready for bed, she told them about him like a story. Fortunately I had given them the slip again by then and was under Guy’s bed (a nice low one, with a frilly thing right to the floor, which he hates but I love) and heard all about my namesake.

  Houdini, in case you don’t know, was a magician who began by doing conjuring tricks and ended up as the most famous escapologist of all time. An escapologist, of course, is someone whose profession is escaping. It’s an act, like an act in a circus or on the stage. Houdini’s helpers would tie him up tight with ropes, chains, handcuffs, and so on; then they’d put him in a thick sack that they’d fasten at the neck; after that they’d wrap more chains around the sack, padlock them, and then—if you can believe it—they’d often hang him up by the feet a couple of yards off the ground. Then they’d give him the old “ready, steady, go,” the drums would roll, and in a matter of a few minutes somehow or other he’d have wriggled free. Don’t ask me how. Nobody ever really knew his secret. Of course he must have had flexible bones, and joints that would bend backward, and he had a few obvious tricks like swelling himself up while they were tying him so the knots wouldn’t be so tight. Still, there was more to it than that—more than anyone ever found out.

  Naturally it was hard for me to understand all this at the time. I hadn’t then watched all the television and seen all the pictures that I have now, which meant I really didn’t have a clue about handcuffs, chains, etc. But I realized that this human had been world-famous for the very thing I had already decided to dedicate my life to. I shuddered at the idea of being tied up or dangled in midair, and hoped nothing so terrible would ever happen to me; but I determined then and there that no matter what challenges faced me in the future, even those, I would try to overcome them. After all, I had one priceless advantage over the human Houdini. I had rodent teeth. Ropes would be nothing to me. And when it came to flexible bones, and being able to make oneself look bigger and then squirm through places you’d think a snake couldn’t get through … I was ready to bet I could hold my own in that respect with the greatest escapologist ever.