The Indian in the Cupboard Trilogy. Lynne Banks Reid

madder and madder. He made a sudden swipe at him with his knife. Boone jumped back.

      “Oh, you naughty Injun! Ah see Ah’ll have to set mah hallucy-nation on to you!”

      But Omri didn’t have to do anything. Little Bull had got the message. Throwing down the knife in a fury, he hurled himself on to Boone.

      What followed was not a fist fight, or a wrestling match, or anything so well organized. It was just an all-in, no-holds-barred two-man war. They rolled on the ground pummelling, kicking and butting with their heads. At one point Omri thought he saw Boone trying to bite. Maybe he succeeded, because Little Bull suddenly let him go and Boone rolled away swift as a barrel down a slope and on to his legs and then, with a spring, like a bow-legged panther on to the Indian again. Feet first.

      Little Bull let out a noise like ‘OOOF!’ – caught Boone by both ankles, and heaved him off. Little Bull picked up a clod of compost and flung it after him, catching him full in the face. Then Little Bull got up and ran at him, holding both fists together and swinging them as he had swung the battle-axe. They caught the cowboy a heavy whack on the ear which sent him flying to one side. But as he flew, he caught Little Bull a blow in the chest with one boot. That left them both on the ground.

      The next moment each of the men found himself pinned down by a giant finger.

      “All right, boys. That’s enough,” said Omri, in his father’s firm end-of-the-fight voice. “It’s a draw. Now you must get cleaned up for school.”

       11

       School

      He brought them a low type of egg-cup full of hot water and a corner of soap cut off a big cake, to wash with. They stood one on each side of it. Little Bull, already naked to the waist, lost no time in plunging his arms in and began energetically rubbing the whole of the top part of his body with his wet hands, throwing water everywhere. He made a lot of noise about it and seemed to be enjoying himself, though he ignored the soap.

      Boone was a different matter. Omri had already noticed that Boone was none too fussy about being clean, and in fact didn’t look as if he’d washed or shaved for weeks. Now he approached the hot water gingerly, eyeing Omri as if to see how little washing he could actually get away with.

      “Come on, Boone! Off with that shirt, you can’t wash your neck with a shirt on,” said Omri briskly, echoing his mother.

      With extreme reluctance, shivering theatrically, Boone dragged off his plaid shirt, keeping his hat on.

      “I should think your hair could do with a wash too,” said Omri.

      Boone stared at him.

      “Wash mah hair?” he asked incredulously. “Washin’ hair’s fur wimmin, ’tain’t fer men!” But he did consent to rub his hands lightly over the piece of soap, although grimacing hideously as if it were some slimy dead thing. Then he rinsed them hastily, smeared some water on his face, and reached for his shirt without even drying himself.

      “Boone!” said Omri sternly. “Just look at Little Bull! You called him dirty, but at least he’s washing himself thoroughly! Now you just do something about your neck and – well, under your arms.”

      Boone’s look was now one of stark horror.

      “Under mah arms!”

      “And your chest I should think. I’m not taking you to school all sweaty.”

      “Hell! Don’t you go runnin’ down sweat! It’s sweat that keeps a man clean!”

      After a lot of bullying, Omri managed to get him to wash at least a few more bits of himself.

      “You’ll have to wash your clothes some time, too,” he said.

      But this was too much for Boone.

      “Ain’t nobody gonna touch muh duds, and that’s final,” he said. “Ain’t bin washed since ah bought ’em. Water takes all the stuffin’ outa good cloth. Without all the dust ’n’ sweat they don’t keep ya warm no more.”

      At last they were ready, and Omri pocketed them and ran down to breakfast. He felt tense with excitement. He’d never carried them around the house before. It was risky, but not so risky as taking them to school – he felt that having family breakfast with them secretly in his pocket was like a training for taking them to school.

      Breakfast in his house was often a dicey meal anyway, with everybody more or less bad-tempered. Today, for instance, Adiel had lost his football shorts and was blaming everybody in turn, and their mother had just discovered that Gillon, contrary to his assurances the night before when he had wanted to watch television, had not finished his homework. Their father was grumpy because he had wanted to do some gardening and it was raining yet again.