Indian women. There were very few. Of the five he found, one was clearly old, and two had babies tied on their backs in parcels laced up like boots.
“You don’t fancy one with a baby, I suppose?”
Little Bull gave him a look.
“No – I thought not,” said Omri hastily. “Well, what about these?”
He stood the two other figures on the edge of the table. Little Bull jumped down and faced them. He looked carefully first at one, then at the other. They both looked the same to Omri, except that one had a yellow dress and the other a blue. Each had a black pigtail and a headband with a single feather, and moccasins on her feet.
Little Bull looked up. His face showed furious disappointment.
“No good,” he said. “This one from own tribe – taboo. This one ugly. Chief must have beautiful wife!”
“But there aren’t any others.”
“Many, many plass-tick! You look good, find other!”
Omri rummaged frantically, right to the bottom of the box. Kids were beginning to come into the shop.
He had almost despaired when he saw her. She lay face down on the very bottom of the box, half-hidden by two cowboys on horses. He pulled her out. She was the same as the others (apparently) except that she wore a red dress. They obviously all came out of the same mould, because they were all in the same position, as if walking. If the others were ugly, so would this one be.
Without much hope, he set her before Little Bull.
He stood staring at her. The shop was getting busy now. At any moment somebody would come up behind him, wanting to buy a plastic figure.
“Well?” asked Omri impatiently.
For another five seconds Little Bull stared. Then, without speaking a word, he nodded his head.
Omri didn’t wait for him to change his mind. He scooped him and Boone back into his pocket and, picking up the approved figure, made his way to the counter.
“Just this one, please,” he said.
Mr Yapp was looking at him. A very odd look.
“Are you sure you only want the one?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Mr Yapp took the plastic figure, dropped it into a bag, and gave it back to Omri.
“Ten pence.”
Omri paid and left the shop. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun round. It was Mr Yapp. The look on his face was now not odd at all, but red and angry.
“Now you can hand over the two you stole.”
Omri stood aghast. “I didn’t steal any!”
“Don’t add lying to your faults, my lad! I watched you put them in your pocket – a cowboy and an Indian.”
Omri’s mouth hung open. He thought he was going to be sick.
“I didn’t—” he tried to say, but no words came out.
“Turn out your pockets.”
“They’re mine!” Omri managed to gasp.
“A likely story! And I suppose you brought them out to help you choose the new one?”
“Yes!”
“Ha, ha, ha,” said Mr Yapp heavily. “Come on, stop playing around. I lose hundreds of pounds’ worth of stuff a year to you thieving kids. When I do catch one of you red-handed, I’m not likely to let it pass – I know your sort – if I let you off, you’d be boasting to your pals at school how easy it is to get away with it, and most likely back you’d come tomorrow for another pocketful!”
Omri was now fighting back tears. Quite a crowd had collected, much like the crowd in the art-room – some of the same people, even – but his feelings were no longer so pleasant. He wished he could die or disappear.
“It’s no good trying to get round me by crying!” shouted Mr Yapp. “Give me them back – right now, or I’ll call the police!”
All at once Patrick was beside him.
“They’re his,” he said. “I know they’re his because he showed them to me at school. A cowboy with a white stetson hat and an Indian in a Chief’s headdress. He told me he was coming to buy a new one. Omri wouldn’t steal.”
Mr Yapp let go of Omri and looked at Patrick. He knew Patrick quite well, because it happened that Patrick’s brother had once been his paper-boy.
“Will you vouch for him, then?”
“Course I will!” said Patrick staunchly. “I’m telling you, I saw ’em both this afternoon.”
But still the shopkeeper wasn’t convinced. “Let’s see if they fit your description,” he said.
Omri, who had been staring at Patrick as at some miraculous deliverer, felt his stomach drop into his shoes once more. But then he had an idea.
He reached both hands into his pockets. Then he held out one hand slowly, still closed, and everyone looked at it, though it was actually empty. The other hand he lifted to his mouth as if to stifle a cough, and whispered into it, “Lie still! Don’t move! Plastic!” Then he put both hands before him and opened them.
The men played along beautifully. There they lay, side by side, stiff and stark, as like lifeless plastic figures as could possibly be. In any case Omri was taking no chances. He gave Mr Yapp just long enough to see that they were dressed as Patrick had said before closing his fingers again.
Mr Yapp grunted.
“Those aren’t from my shop anyhow,” he said. “All my Indian Chiefs are sitting down, and that sort of cowboy is always on a horse. Well, I’m sorry, lad. You’ll have to excuse me, but you must admit, it did look suspicious.”
Omri managed a sickly smile. The crowd were melting away. Mr Yapp shuffled back into the shop. Omri and Patrick were left alone on the pavement.
“Thanks,” said Omri. It came out as croaky as a frog.
“That’s okay. Have a Toffo.”
They had a Toffo each and walked along side by side. After a while Omri said, “A man’s gotta chew what a man’s gotta chew.”
They gave each other a quick grin.
“Let’s give them some.”
They stopped, took the men out, and gave them each some bits of the chocolate covering on the Toffo.
“That’s a reward,” said Patrick, “for playing dead.”
Little
