“Your English gets a hell of a lot better when you want something,” I said, stalling for time.
“Oh-oh,” Harry murmured, nudging me. “Here comes trouble.”
But Percy didn’t look like trouble to me, not that night. He wasn’t running his hands through his hair or fiddling with that baton of his, and the top button of his uniform shirt was actually undone. It was the first time I’d seen him that way, and it was amazing, what a change a little thing like that could make.
Mostly, though, what struck me was the expression on his face. There was a calmness there. Not serenity
– I don’t think Percy Wetmore had a serene bone in his body – but the look of a man who has discovered he can wait for the things he wants. It was quite a change from the young man I’d had to threaten with Brutus Howell’s fists only a few days before.
Delacroix didn’t see the change, though; he cringed against the wall of his cell, drawing his knees up to his chest. His eyes seemed to grow until they were taking up half his face. The mouse scampered up on his bald pate and sat there. I don’t know if he remembered that he also had reason to distrust Percy, but it certainly looked as if he did. Probably it was just smelling the little Frenchman’s fear, and reacting off that.
“Well, well,” Percy said. “Looks like you found yourself a friend, Eddie.”
Delacroix tried to reply-some hollow defiance about what would happen to Percy if Percy hurt his new pal would have been my guess – but nothing came out. His lower lip trembled a little, but that was all. On
top of his head, Mr. Jingles wasn’t trembling. He sat perfectly still with his back feet in Delacroix’s hair and his front ones splayed on Delacroix’s bald looking at Percy, seeming to size him up. The way you’d size up an old enemy.
Percy looked at me. “Isn’t that the same one I chased? The one that lives in the restraint room?”
I nodded. I had an idea Percy hadn’t seen the newly named Mr. Jingles since that last chase, and he showed no signs of wanting to chase it now.
“Yes, that’s the one,” I said. “Only Delacroix there says his name is Mr. Jingles, not Steamboat Willy.
Says the mouse whispered it in his ear.”
“Is that so,” Percy said. “Wonders never cease, do they?” I half-expected him to pull out his baton and start tapping it against the bars, just to show Delacroix who was boss, but he only stood there with his hands on his hips, looking in.
And for no reason I could have told you in words, I said: “Delacroix there was just asking for a box, Percy. He thinks that mouse will sleep in it, I guess. That he can keep it for a pet.” I loaded my voice with skepticism, and sensed more than saw Harry looking at me in surprise. “What do you think about that?”
“I think it’ll probably shit up his nose some night while he’s sleeping and then run away,” Percy said evenly, “but I guess that’s the French boy’s lookout. I seen a pretty nice cigar box on Toot-Toot’s cart the other night. I don’t know if he’d give it away, though. Probably want a nickel for it, maybe even a dime.”
Now I did risk a glance at Harry, and saw his mouth hanging open. This wasn’t quite like the change in Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning, after the ghosts had had their way with him, but it was damned close.
Percy leaned closer to Delacroix, putting his face between the bars. Delacroix shrank back even farther. I swear to God that he would have melted into that wall if he’d been able.
“You got a nickel or maybe as much as a dime to pay for a cigar box, you lugoon?” he asked.
“I got four pennies,”, Delacroix said. “I give them for a box, if it a good one, s’il est bon.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Percy said. “If that toothless old whoremaster will sell you that Corona box for four cents, I’ll sneak some cotton batting out of the dispensary to line it with. We’ll make us a regular Mousie Hilton, before we’re through.” He shifted his eyes to me. “I’m supposed to write a switch-room report about Bitterbuck,” he said. “Is there some pens in your office, Paul?”