Henry and the Clubhouse Read online

  “Come on, Ramona,” coaxed Beezus. “You can be a paperboy some other day.”

  “No, I can’t,” said Ramona, in a small voice. “Henry always rides his bicycle, and I can’t keep up with him.” So on they trudged.

  The next house on the snowdrift side of the street was the house of Mrs. Peabody. Henry took a paper from his sled, waded up to the front door, and rang the doorbell.

  “Why, it’s Harry Higgins!” exclaimed Mrs. Peabody, opening the door just a crack so the cold would not come in. “My, but you are a thoughtful boy to bring the paper right to the front door!”

  “His name isn’t Harry Higgins!” Ramona shouted. “His name is Henry Huggins!”

  Mrs. Peabody looked startled and opened the door a bit wider. “Is it really?” she asked Henry.

  “Well…yes,” admitted Henry, “but that’s all right.” Just the same he was grateful to Ramona for straightening Mrs. Peabody out. He felt almost kindly toward the little girl in spite of that terrible Journal bag.

  “My, I am sorry,” said Mrs. Peabody. “To think that I have been calling you Harry Higgins all this time when your name is really Henry Huggins. I don’t see how I could have made such a mistake.”

  “Aw, I knew who you meant.” Henry was embarrassed.

  Ramona began to cry.

  “Come on, let’s go home,” said Beezus impatiently.

  Ramona cried harder. “I—I’m too t-tired,” she sobbed.

  “Why, the poor little thing,” said Mrs. Peabody. “She’s all worn out. If I could get my car out of the garage I would drive her home myself.”

  Henry looked at Ramona, standing there sobbing in the snow. Her face was red with cold and blotched with tears. With her boots buried in snow she looked even smaller than she really was. She rubbed her eyes with her cold, soggy mitten, and sniffed pitifully.

  Henry’s feelings were all mixed up. He remembered how she had locked him in the clubhouse and what a pest she had been. At the same time he was grateful to her, because she had told Mrs. Peabody his real name. Doggone it, thought Henry. Doggone it all, anyway. Why did this have to go and happen? He felt sorry for Ramona—actually felt sorry for her. This was really the last straw. He did not want to feel sorry for Ramona in that stupid old Journal bag of hers. He tried hard not to feel sorry for her but he could not help himself.

  “Come on, Ramona,” he said, even though he didn’t want to. “Get on the sled and I’ll pull you home.”

  “I’ll help,” said Beezus gratefully. She lifted her little sister onto the sled in front of Henry’s papers. “Now hang on.”

  Henry and Beezus took the rope and began to pull the sled. By this time the streets were almost empty of cars, and they could run, slipping and sliding, on the snow that had been packed down into ice.

  Ramona stopped crying. “Mush!” she yelled between sniffs. “Mush!”

  “Aw, keep quiet,” said Henry rudely. He was in no mood to play sled dog for Ramona. He did not feel that sorry for her.

  “Oh, thank you, Henry,” said Beezus, when they had deposited Ramona on her front steps. “I don’t know how I would ever have got her home without your help.”

  “That’s OK,” said Henry gruffly, and retraced his steps to start his route once more. And all because of Ramona. It seemed to Henry that he had never had a worse time delivering papers, not even when there was an extra-thick Sunday edition. Half his papers had to be delivered to the door or at least stuffed into the mailbox. He was too warm inside his car coat, but an icy wind began to blow through his trousers, chilling his legs. His boots were heavy and his gloves were wet again. He was tired, cross, and hungry. By the time Henry had delivered his last paper and dragged his sled home again, it was dark and snow was falling through patches of light cast by the streetlamps.

  “Henry, I was beginning to worry about you,” said Mrs. Huggins, when he had stamped the snow off his boots and entered the kitchen.

  “It takes longer to deliver papers in the snow,” Mr. Huggins pointed out.

  “It sure does, Dad,” agreed Henry. “It sure does.” And he thought, especially when someone like Ramona lives on the route.

  The next day the snow had stopped and the sun shone on a sparkling world. The city began to recover. Snowplows cleared the main streets and by late afternoon most of Henry’s neighbors had shoveled their walks. Henry was rested but so was Ramona. As soon as he started his paper route, there she was again wearing her little Journal bag. Henry wished all the snow was cleared away, so he could ride his bicycle again. Ramona, still very good, tagged along, and all the people who were now shoveling their driveways stopped working and smiled and said, “I see you have a little shadow.” There was nothing Henry could do about it. A line of the poem he had once had to speak in school kept running through his head.

  “I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

  And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.”

  Boy, whoever wrote that poem knew what he was talking about!

  The third day just enough snow had fallen to freeze on the cleared sidewalks and make them too slippery for Henry to ride his bicycle. Because delivering papers was still difficult Henry and the other boys gathered early to fold and count the papers. Henry was almost ready to start his route when Mr. Capper came around to check on the boys. He grinned at Henry. “Well, Henry,” he said, “I see you got your name in the paper.”

  “Who, me?” asked Henry in surprise.

  “Yes, Henry Huggins,” said Mr. Capper, opening a paper. “Right here on the editorial page.”

  Henry could not understand what Mr. Capper was talking about. What would his name be doing on the editorial page or any place else in the paper? It must be some other Henry Huggins.

  Mr. Capper began to read. “Dear Editor.”

  Henry understood that much. Someone had written a letter to the newspaper.

  “Dear Editor,” Mr. Capper read. “I wish to call attention to the fine work a boy named Henry Huggins is doing delivering the Journal in our neighborhood.”

  “Hey, that’s me!” exclaimed Henry.

  “I told you,” said Mr. Capper, and continued reading for all the boys to hear. “Henry is always prompt and courteous, but it was yesterday during the heavy snow that I was particularly impressed with his work. Delivering papers that day was not easy, but Henry went out of his way to ring my doorbell and hand me my paper so that it would not get buried in a snowdrift. Not only that, he took time out from his route to give a little girl who was cold and tired a ride home on his sled. The Journal should be proud of this fine young citizen. Sincerely yours, Bessie Peabody.”

  At first Henry was speechless and then he felt as if he was suddenly growing about four inches taller.

  All the other carriers looked at Henry with respect.

  “Boy, I wish somebody would write a letter like that about me!” said Scooter.

  “I’ve been delivering papers three years and nobody ever wrote a letter about me,” said Joe.

  “Me neither,” said all the other boys.

  “And Henry is our youngest carrier,” Mr. Capper reminded them. He gave Henry a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work, Henry. I am proud of you.”

  Henry felt himself grow another inch. Mr. Capper was proud of him! He had said so in front of all the other boys.

  On his way down the driveway Henry passed Ramona with her little Journal bag over her shoulders. She slipped on an icy spot and sat down hard. Before she could start to howl Henry boosted her to her feet, because he suddenly realized that if it weren’t for Ramona, Mrs. Peabody would have written a letter to the Journal praising Harry Higgins, and Mr. Capper would have thought it was about a carrier in some other neighborhood.

  Henry knew he had had a very close call. “Be careful and don’t fall again,” he cautioned Ramona. “You might get hurt.” Then he started delivering papers, with Ramona following ten feet behind him. Today this did not bother him. Mr. Capper w
as proud of him, so he did not care who tagged after him. Besides, he was too busy thinking what his father would say when he read Mrs. Peabody’s letter in his evening paper.

  Henry decided not to say anything to his father. He would let him discover the letter for himself. His father would be reading along and all of a sudden he would see Henry’s name in the paper. He would probably be so surprised he would just about jump out of his chair….

  That evening it seemed to Henry that his father never would get around to reading the paper. First he dawdled over his dessert and asked for a second cup of coffee.

  “Why are you so restless tonight?” Mr. Huggins asked Henry.

  “Me? I’m not restless,” said Henry, wishing his father would hurry up and drink that coffee.

  “I’ll carry your dishes into the kitchen, Dad,” Henry offered.

  Mr. Huggins looked surprised. He got up from the table and remarked, “Maybe I’ll build a fire in the fireplace, it’s such a cold night.”

  “That’s funny, Dad,” said Henry. “I was just thinking it was awfully warm in here.”

  Mr. Huggins turned on the television set.

  That was too much for Henry. He couldn’t wait any longer. “Say, Dad, did you read tonight’s paper?” he asked.

  “I glanced at the headlines. Why?”

  “Well—I just wondered if you happened to read the editorial page,” said Henry.

  “Not yet.” Mr. Huggins looked curiously at his son. “Why are you so interested?”

  “I got my name in the paper.” Henry could not keep the pride out of his voice.

  “On the editorial page?” Mr. Huggins sounded disbelieving as he reached for the evening paper. He folded it back to the editorial page.

  “There.” Henry pointed at the letter.

  “What is it?” asked Mrs. Huggins, coming in from the kitchen. She leaned over her husband’s shoulder to read. “Why, Henry!” she exclaimed. “Wasn’t that a nice thing for Mrs. Peabody to do for you!”

  “Henry, I am proud of you!” said Mr. Huggins. “I don’t care how much snow there is. I’m going right out and buy half a dozen papers so we can send copies of this to your relatives.”

  “Gee, thanks, Dad,” said Henry modestly. He had waited a long time to hear his father say he was proud of him.

  “I’ll admit that when you took on the route and then got mixed up in building a clubhouse, I didn’t think you could handle it, but you’ve done a good job,” said Mr. Huggins.

  Henry was pleased and at the same time a little embarrassed by this praise from his father.

  Mr. Huggins went to the hall closet and put on his overcoat and hat. “By the way,” he remarked, “how much more money do you need for that sleeping bag?”

  “About five dollars,” Henry admitted.

  Mr. Huggins took out his wallet, opened it, and handed Henry a five-dollar bill. “There you are. Tomorrow you go to the sporting goods store and buy that sleeping bag.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Henry accepted the bill. “You mean I can sleep out in the clubhouse when there is snow?”

  Mrs. Huggins spoke up. “You may not. Do you think I want you catching your death of cold?”

  “But the sleeping bag is filled with down,” Henry pointed out. “It’s nice and warm.”

  “I don’t care,” said Mrs. Huggins. “You can’t sleep out until we have some warm dry weather.”

  “OK, Mom.” Henry was agreeable, because he had not really expected his mother to let him sleep outdoors in the snow. He would have the sleeping bag and that was what counted. That, and knowing his father and Mr. Capper were proud of him and realized he could handle a paper route.

  “Coming with me, Henry?” asked Mr. Huggins.

  “Sure, Dad.” Henry pulled his coat out of the closet. Good old Mrs. Peabody, he thought to himself as he put on his cap and pulled the ear flaps down over his ears. I knew she would be the best customer on my route. He picked up the paper to admire his name in print once more, and as he looked at it he could not help thinking, Good old Ramona.

  About the Author

  BEVERLY CLEARY is one of America’s most popular authors. Born in McMinnville, Oregon, she lived on a farm in Yamhill until she was six and then moved to Portland. After college, as the children’s librarian in Yakima, Washington, she was challenged to find stories for non-readers. She wrote her first book, HENRY HUGGINS, in response to a boy’s question, “Where are the books about kids like us?”

  Mrs. Cleary’s books have earned her many prestigious awards, including the American Library Association’s Laura Ingalls Wilder Award, presented in recognition of her lasting contribution to children’s literature. Her DEAR MR. HENSHAW was awarded the 1984 John Newbery Medal, and both RAMONA QUIMBY, AGE 8 and RAMONA AND HER FATHER have been named Newbery Honor Books. In addition, her books have won more than thirty-five statewide awards based on the votes of her young readers. Her characters, including Henry Huggins, Ellen Tebbits, Otis Spofford, and Beezus and Ramona Quimby, as well as Ribsy, Socks, and Ralph S. Mouse, have delighted children for generations. Mrs. Cleary lives in coastal California.

  Visit Henry Huggins and all of his friends in The World of Beverly Cleary at www.beverlycleary.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Enjoy all of Beverly Cleary’s books

  FEATURING RAMONA QUIMBY:

  Beezus and Ramona

  Ramona the Pest

  Ramona the Brave

  Ramona and Her Father

  Ramona and Her Mother

  Ramona Quimby, Age 8

  Ramona Forever

  Ramona’s World

  FEATURING HENRY HUGGINS:

  Henry Huggins

  Henry and Beezus

  Henry and Ribsy

  Henry and the Paper Route

  Henry and the Clubhouse

  Ribsy

  FEATURING RALPH MOUSE:

  The Mouse and the Motorcycle

  Runaway Ralph

  Ralph S. Mouse

  MORE GREAT FICTION BY BEVERLY CLEARY:

  Ellen Tebbits

  Otis Spofford

  Fifteen

  The Luckiest Girl

  Jean and Johnny

  Emily’s Runaway Imagination

  Sister of the Bride

  Mitch and Amy

  Socks

  Dear Mr. Henshaw

  Muggie Maggie

  Strider

  Two Times the Fun

  AND DON'T MISS BEVERLY CLEARY'S AUTOBIOGRAPHIES:

  A Girl from Yamhill

  My Own Two Feet

  Credits

  Jacket art by Tracy Dockray

  Jacket design by Amy Ryan

  Copyright

  HENRY AND THE CLUBHOUSE. Copyright © 1962, renewed 1990 by Beverly Cleary. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub © Edition SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780061972218

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