Born to Run. Michael Morpurgo

kicking at it, trying to escape from it and squeaking and squealing in terror. He had no idea what it might be, only that it was alive and in danger of drowning. The canal wasn’t that wide. It was dirty but it wasn’t wide. He could do it.

      Patrick didn’t think about it any more. He shrugged off his school bag and leaped into the canal. He knew he was a good enough swimmer, so he wasn’t worried about drowning, only about getting cold and wet. He didn’t want the canal water in his mouth either, so he kept it tight shut. Just a few quick strokes out into the canal and he’d grabbed the sack, turned, and was swimming back again. Suddenly the bank seemed a long way away, but he got there.

      Climbing out was the most difficult part because his clothes were heavy and clinging, and the sack was slippery in his hands, difficult to hold on to. He felt suddenly very weak, felt the cold of the water chilling him to the bone. But with one huge effort he heaved himself up, enough to hook one leg up, on to the bank, and then he was out. Standing there, dripping from everywhere, he untied the sack and opened it. There were five puppies inside, leggy, gangly looking creatures, skeletal almost, all of them trembling with cold and crawling over one another, squirming to get out, mouths open and squeaking frantically. They were like no puppies Patrick had ever seen before.

      He had two choices, and he knew neither of them were any good. He could go home at once and leave the puppies in his bedroom – he had a key, he could easily let himself into the flat. There’d be no one home, but at least they’d be warm there. This way he could change his wet clothes too. He could feed them when he got back after school. The trouble was that it would take for ever to get there and back, and by the time he got to school he’d be so late that Mrs Brightwell would probably have one of her eruptions and he’d be in detention for a week, and she’d be bound to send him home with another cross letter for his mum and dad.

      She certainly wouldn’t believe his excuse: “Please Mrs Brightwell, sorry I’m late, but I had to jump into the canal on the way to school to rescue some puppies.” If he didn’t have the puppies with him, and he’d already changed into dry clothes, she’d be bound to think he was making the whole thing up. She hated excuses anyway, especially incredible ones. She’d go ballistic.

      Or he could go straight to school all wet and smelly from the canal, only a little bit late and carrying the puppies with him. At least she’d have to believe his story then, wouldn’t she? But then he thought of what Jimmy Rington would say when he walked into school all dripping and sodden, how everyone would laugh at him. They’d never let him forget it, that was for sure. And then there was that swan he had to get by, still there blocking his path, still glaring at him.

      In the end it was Mr Boots, the lollipop man, who made up Patrick’s mind for him. Patrick was standing there, numb with cold, still wondering what he should do, when he saw Mr Boots come hurrying along the towpath, lollipop stick in his hand, his white coat flying. Patrick had never much liked Mr Boots. He wasn’t called “Bossy Boots” for nothing. He was a bit full of himself, a bit puffed up and pompous. And there was something about him Patrick had never quite trusted. He was a bit of a phoney, Patrick thought. But all the same he was glad to see him now.

      Mr Boots arrived breathless. For a while he could only speak in gasps. “You jumped in!” he spluttered. “Whatever d’you want to go and do that for?”

      By way of an answer Patrick showed him what he had in his sack. Mr Boots bent over to look. Then he was spluttering again. “Blow me down! Puppies, greyhound puppies they are. Little beauties!” He looked up at Patrick. “You could have drowned yourself, doing that. Look at you, you’re soaked to the skin. You’ll catch your death standing here. Best get you into school and fast. I’m telling you, when Mrs Brightwell hears about this… You come along with me. Here, you can take my lollipop stick if you like, and I’ll carry your school bag and the puppies.”

      As the two of them hurried along the towpath a barge came chuntering past. “Been in for a bit of a dip, have you, son?” laughed the man at the wheel. But Patrick paid him no attention – he had his eye on that swan. He felt a little more confident though, because he had the lollipop stick to wave now. As it turned out he didn’t need it. The swan moved aside as they came hurrying towards him and swam out into the canal, riding the wake of the barge. Then they were up the steps from the towpath and across the road into the school playground.

      Patrick knew he was already late the moment he walked through the door. There was no one about. They’d all be in assembly by now. He’d be in really big trouble. He felt like running off home there and then. But he couldn’t, because Mr Boots had him firmly by the hand and was walking him down the corridor towards the hall. He could hear Mrs Brightwell’s voice now. She was making one of her important announcements, and by the sound of her she was in full flow and already cross about something. Not a good moment to interrupt her, Patrick thought. Mr Boots stopped at the door to straighten his tie and smooth down his hair – he didn’t have much of it, but what he had he liked to keep immaculate. Then, clearing his throat, he threw open the double doors, and in they went.

      Everyone turned and gawped. Up on the platform Mrs Brightwell stopped in mid-sentence. A deep hush fell around them as they walked the entire length of the hall up towards Mrs Brightwell. Every step Patrick took seemed to squelch louder than the one before, and all the way the puppies in the sack were squealing and squeaking.

      Mrs Brightwell did not look at all pleased. “Mr Boots,” she said, “what is this? Why is Patrick standing there dripping all over my assembly hall? What on earth has happened?”

      “Actually, it’s a bit of a long story, Mrs Brightwell.” Mr Boots sounded typically self-important. “You had to see it to believe it. There I am, just minding my own business on the crossing outside the school, when I hear this splash. So I look over the bridge, and what do I see? Only young Patrick here in the canal swimming like a fish. Well of course I think he’s fallen in, and he’s drowning. So I start running, don’t I? I mean I’ve got to save him, haven’t I? But then I see he’s not drowning at all. He’s got hold of this sack and he’s swimming like billy-o for the bank. And I’m thinking to myself: You’re off your tiny rocker, my son, taking a dip in that filthy old canal just to fetch out a dirty old plastic sack. Luckily for young Patrick here I was on hand to help him out, cos he wouldn’t have made it on his own, that’s for sure.”

      You fibber! Patrick thought. You great big fibber! But he didn’t say anything.

      Mr Boots hadn’t finished yet. He was enjoying his moment in the limelight. “So Patrick’s standing there now on the bank, all shivering and shaking, and that’s when I have a little look inside the sack, don’t I? And what do I find? It’s full of puppies, that’s what, five of the little beggars, and if I’m not mistaken, which I’m not, they’re greyhounds, about seven weeks old by the look of them. We’ve got brindles in there, blacks and a fawn one too. I go down the greyhound track from time to time, so I know my greyhounds. I’m what you might call a greyhound connoisseur. They’re lovely pups too, fine dogs. And young Patrick here jumped in the canal and saved them. I saw him with my own eyes. He’s a bleeding hero, if you ask me – ‘scuse my French, Mrs Brightwell – but that’s what he is, a bleeding hero.”

      Patrick had never heard such a depth of silence as he heard in that hall when Bossy Boots had finished. Then one of the puppies squeaked, and suddenly they were all at it, a whole chorus of squealing, yelping puppies. “Aaah, sweet,” said someone. Someone else started giggling, and soon there was laughter and clapping too, rippling round the hall. Within moments the assembly hall was loud with cheering and whooping – one or two were yelping like puppies. Patrick stood there soaking in the applause and feeling about ten foot tall. Even Mrs Brightwell was clapping now. Patrick saw there were tears in her eyes as she beamed at him. That was the first time, Patrick thought, that she’d ever beamed at him. He’d never seen her cry before either; he didn’t know she could. Suddenly he found himself really quite liking her, and that hadn’t happened before either.

      As the applause died away at last, Mrs Brightwell came down off the platform, and peered into the sack. “One. Two. Three. Four, five, and they’re all alive because of you, Patrick. What you did was very special.