he was drawing something quite large, making the best use of his vast piece of paper; but from Omri’s, the drawing was minute, perfect in its detailing but smaller than any human hand could possibly have made it. He and Little Bull watched, fascinated.
“Boone, you’re an artist!” Omri breathed at last, when Boone had even made the mud on the unpaved street look real. Little Bull grunted.
“But not like real place,” he said.
Boone didn’t trouble to answer, in fact he was so absorbed he probably didn’t hear. But Omri frowned. Then he understood. Of course! Boone’s town was part of an America which was not thought of during Little Bull’s time.
“Boone,” he whispered, bending his head down. “What year is it – your town – your time?”
“Last time Ah saw a newspaper it was 1889,” said Boone. “There! That’s muh drawin’. Not bad, huh?”
“It’s absolutely brilliant,” said Omri, enthralled.
“Omri!”
Omri jumped. His two hands instantly cupped themselves over the two men.
From the other side of the room, the teacher said, “I see it’s no use trying to stop you chattering. You even do it when you’re alone! Bring me your picture.”
For a moment Omri hesitated. But it was too marvellous to be passed up! He scooped the men into his pocket and picked up the sheet of paper. For once he wouldn’t stop to think. He’d just enjoy himself.
He carried Boone’s drawing to the teacher and put it innocently into her hand.
What happened then made up for a good deal of the worry and general anxiety the little men had caused him. First she just glanced. At a glance, the drawing in the middle of the paper just looked like a scribble or a smudge.
“I thought you said you were going to do something huge,” she said with a laugh. “This isn’t much more than a—”
And then she took a second, much closer, look.
She stared without speaking for about two minutes, while Omri felt inside him the beginnings of a huge, gleeful, uncontrollable laugh. Abruptly the teacher, who had been perched on a desk, stood up and went to a cupboard. Omri was not surprised when she turned round to see a magnifying glass in her hand.
She put the paper down on a table and bent over it, with the glass poised. She examined the drawing for several minutes more. Her face was something to see! Some of the nearest children had become aware that something unusual was going on, and were also craning to see what the teacher was looking at so attentively. Omri stood with the same innocent look on his face, waiting, the laugh slowly rising inside him. Fun? This was fun, if you liked! This was what he’d been imagining!
The teacher looked at him. Her face was not quite as stunned as Mr Johnson’s had been, but it was an absolute picture of bafflement.
“Omri,” she said. “How in the name of all that’s holy did you do this?”
“I like drawing small,” said Omri quite truthfully.
“Small! This isn’t small! It’s tiny! It’s infinitesimal! It’s microscopic!” Her voice was rising higher with every word. Several of the other children had now stood up and were crowding round the paper, peering at it in absolute stupefaction. Small gasps and exclamations of wonder were rising on all sides. Omri’s held-in laugh threatened to explode.
The teacher’s eyes were now narrow with astonishment – and doubt.
“Show me,” she said, “the pencil you used.”
This took Omri aback, but only for a second.
“I left it over there. I’ll just go and get it,” he said sweetly.
He walked back to his table, his hand in his pocket. With his back turned he bent over, apparently searching the top of the table. Then he turned round, smiling, holding something cupped in his hand. He walked back.
“Here it is,” he said, and held out his hand.
Everyone bent forward. The art teacher took hold of his hand and pulled it towards her. “Are you having me on, Omri? There’s nothing there!”
“Yes there is.”
She peered close until he could feel her warm breath on his hand.
“Don’t breathe hard,” said Omri, his laugh now trembling on his very lips. “You’ll blow it away. Maybe you’d see it better through the magnifying glass,” he added kindly.
Slowly she raised the glass into position. She looked through.
“Can I see? Is it there? Can I look?” clamoured the other children. All except Patrick. He was sitting by himself, not paying attention to the crowd around Omri.
The art teacher lowered the glass. Her eyes were dazed.
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s there.”
“How did you pick it up?”
“Ah. Well, that’s a bit of a secret method I have.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it must be. And you wouldn’t feel like telling us?”
“No,” said Omri in a trembly voice. His laugh was on the very brink – it was going to burst out – “May I go to the loo?”
“Yes,” she said in a dazed voice. “Go on.”
He took the drawing back and tottered to the door. He managed to get outside before the laugh actually blew out. But it was so loud, so overpowering that he was obliged to go right out into the playground. There he sank on to a bench and laughed till he felt quite weak. Her face! He had never enjoyed anything so much in his whole life. It had been worth it.
The bell rang. School was over. Omri brought out the men and held them up.
“Guys,” he said (after all, they were both Americans), “I enjoyed that. Thank you. Now we’re going to the shop.”
Omri ran all the way to Yapp’s and was there before most other children had even left the school. In ten minutes the place would be full of them, buying crisps and sweets and toys and comics. Just now he had it to himself, and he had to make the most of the few minutes he had.
He went directly to the corner where the boxes of plastic figures were kept, and stood with his back to the main counter. He was still holding Little Bull and Boone in his hand, and he put them down among the figures in the cowboys-and-Indians box. He hadn’t reckoned on Boone’s sensitive nature, however.
“Holy catfish! Look at all them dead bodies!” he squeaked, hiding his eyes. “There musta bin a massacree!”
“Not dead,” said Little Bull scornfully. “Plass-tick.” He kicked a plastic cowboy aside. “Too
