The Indian in the Cupboard

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Authors: Lynne Reid Banks
firelighter, and stuck with bits of carpet hairs.
    “I’m terribly sorry, Little Bear,” he mumbled.
    “No good sorry! Little Bear hungry, work all day, cook meat—now what eat? I chop you down like tree!” And to Omri’s horror he saw Little Bear run to where the battle-ax was lying, pick it up, and advance toward his leg, swinging it in great circles as he came.
    Patrick fairly danced with excitement. “Isn’t he fantastically brave, though! Much more than David with Goliath!”
    Omri felt the whole thing was going too far. He removed his leg from harm’s way. “Little Bear! Calm down,” he said. “I’ve said I’m sorry.”
    Little Bear looked at him, blazing-eyed. Then he rushed over to the chair Omri used at his table and began chopping wedges out of the leg of it.
    “Stop! Stop! Or I’ll put you back in the cupboard!”
    Little Bear stopped abruptly and dropped the ax. He stood with his back to them, his shoulders heaving.
    “I’ll get you something to eat—right now—something delicious. Go and paint. It’ll make you feel better. I won’t be long.” To Patrick he said, “Hang on. I can smell supper cooking, I’ll go and get a bit of whatever we’re having,” and he rushed downstairs without stopping to think.
    His mother was dishing up a nice hot stew.
    “Can I have a tiny bit of that, Mum? Just a little bit, in a spoon. It’s for a game we’re playing.”
    His mother obligingly gave him a big spoonful. “Don’t let it drip,” she said. “Does Patrick want to stay for supper?”
    “I don’t know—I’ll ask,” said Omri.
    “Were you two fighting up there? I heard thumps.”
    “No-o—not really. It was just that he wanted to do something that I—”
    Omri stopped dead, as if frozen to the ground. He might have been frozen, his face went so cold. Patrick was up there—with the cupboard—and two biscuit tinsful of little plastic figures—alone!
    Omri ran. He usually won the egg-and-spoon race at the school sports, which was just as well—it’s hard enough to carry an egg in a spoon running along a flat field; it’s a great deal harder to carry a tablespoonful of boiling hot stewsteady while you rush up a flight of stairs. If most of it was still there when he got to the top it was more by good luck than skill because he was hardly noticing the spoon at all—all he could think of was what might be—no,
must
be happening in his room, and how much more of it would happen if he didn’t hurry.
    He burst in through the door and saw exactly what he’d dreaded—Patrick, bent over the cupboard, just turning the key to open it.
    “What—” Omri gasped out between panting breaths, but he had no need to go on. Patrick, without turning around, opened the cupboard and reached in. Then he did turn. He was gazing into his cupped hands with eyes like huge marbles. He slowly extended his hands toward Omri and whispered, “Look!”
    Omri, stepping forward, had just time to feel intensely glad that at least Patrick had not put a whole handful of figures in but had only changed one. But which? He leaned over, then drew back with a gasp.
    It was the cowboy. And his horse.
    The horse was in an absolute panic. It was scrambling about wildly in the cup of Patrick’s hands, snorting and pawing, up one minute and down on its side the next, stirrups and reins flying. It was a beautiful horse, snow-white with a long mane and tail, and the sight of it acting so frightened gave Omri heart pains.
    As for the cowboy, he was too busy dodging the horse’s flying feet and jumping out of the way when it fell to notice much about his surroundings. He probably thought he was caught in an earthquake. Omri and Patrick watched, spellbound, as the little man in his plaid shirt, buckskin trousers, high-heeled leather boots, and big hat, scrambled frantically up the side of Patrick’s right hand and, dodging through thespace between his index finger and thumb, swung himself clear of the horse—only to look

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