Thwaites was tinkling some pennies in his pocket. I had two halfpennies in mine and was running my fingers lovingly around them.
It was simply terrible standing there like that. It was hell on earth. It was pure torture.
But the thing about torture is that it concentrates the mind most marvellously. I could feel my own mind beginning to concentrate at this very moment. Massive brainwaves were starting to surge through my head.
‘I think I may have a bit of an idea,’ I said softly.
‘No, thank you!’ they cried. ‘Don’t tell us! We don’t want any more of your rotten ideas! You had a beauty yesterday, didn’t you, and look where it landed us!’
‘This one is safe,’ I said.
‘Keep it to yourself,’ they told me.
‘It’s a wheeze for getting our own back on Mrs Pratchett,’ I said, ‘and for getting something to eat at the same time.’
‘How can we possibly get our own back on Mrs Pratchett?’ somebody said.
‘I suppose you want us to throw a brick through her window?’ someone else said.
‘I told you this one is safe,’ I said. ‘We won’t be breaking a single rule. And we’ll get some eats into the bargain.’
I saw them hesitate.
I proceeded to tell them about my great and brilliant Chocolate-Mouse Plan.
‘By golly,’ Thwaites said grudgingly when I had finished. ‘I must say, it would be a bit of a lark.’
As we walked slowly across the road towards the sweet-shop, that famous old tingle of excitement came flooding over me once again. I loved that feeling. I craved it. It was an addiction. I got it, for example, when I went birds-nesting up a very tall tree that had long branches. I got it when swinging on a swing standing up and going so high that the ropes went slack at the top of the swing. I got it when eating in class because if they caught you you were always sent straight to the Headmaster who caned you on the spot. I got it on the second-floor balcony of our house when tightrope walking along the top rail with a fall of twenty feet on one side. I got it from doing lots of other things and I was getting it now as we walked across the road towards Mrs Pratchett’s sweet-shop. The tension was terrible. I hoped it would last.
‘Ha!’ Mrs Pratchett said as the five of us sidled in. ‘So you’ve come to say you’re sorry, ’ave you? And so you ruddy well should be!’ She rubbed her filthy hands together and started to cackle. ‘I’ll bet them little backsides of yours is smartin’ something fierce!’ she went on. ‘’E does a very neat job, that ’eadmaster of yours, when ’e puts ’is mind to it, ain’t that so?’
We kept silent. We lined up in an orderly queue in front of the counter, and we placed ourselves in the same order we had been in, in Mr Coombes’s study, with Thwaites first and me last. No one of us grinned or giggled. We kept our faces absolutely solemn and we did our best to look like angels.
‘We, we are a nice well-be’aved little bunch this afternoon, ain’t we?’ she went on. ‘There’s nothin’ like a few good ticklers on the rump to take the cheekiness out of you. It works bloomin’ miracles, don’t it just!’
She was gloating over us and thoroughly enjoying herself. Not one of us made a murmur. We simply stood there quietly and waited for her to have her say.
‘I knows one thing,’ she announced. ‘We won’t be ’avin’ no more talk about mice after what’s ’appened today and that’s for sure!’
This was Thwaites’ cue. ‘One mouse, please,’ he said politely, holding out his halfpenny.
This pulled her up short. She looked very carefully into his face, searching for the smirk. ‘One what?’ she screeched.
‘One mouse, please,’ Thwaites repeated. ‘One chocolate mouse.’
‘You cheeky little blighter!’ she cried. ‘You’re tryin’ to ’ave me on, ain’t you?’
‘Here’s the money,’ Thwaites said. ‘I’d like a mouse.’
Mrs Pratchett stood there glaring at little Thwaites. She was completely off balance now. She knew that he had every right to ask for a chocolate mouse if he wanted one. Very slowly she took the halfpenny and slid the chocolate mouse across the glass counter with her dirty fingers. ‘And what do you want?’ she said to the next boy in line.
‘I want a mouse, too,’ he said.
Mrs Pratchett’s face went the colour of a ripe plum. ‘You’ve got a flamin’ nerve!’ she cried. ‘I’ll report you for this!’
‘What for?’ the boy asked. ‘I’ve not done anything wrong. I want to buy a chocolate mouse. They are for sale, aren’t they?’