Henry and the Paper Route (4 page)

“Oh, all right, Nosy,” said Mr. Huggins. “I give up. Make yourself at home. You will, anyway.” The kitten began to purr with a sound like a tiny engine. Then he began to knead Mr. Huggins's lap by moving his front paws up and down. After that he washed his face, his ears, his back, and each toe with great care.

The room seemed so peaceful that Henry was able to return to the problem of the paper route. But when he tried to think about the route he found himself thinking about kittens, and when he tried to think about getting rid of the kittens he thought about the paper route. It was very confusing. And then all of a sudden Henry was not confused anymore. He knew exactly what he would do—he
would combine the two! He would go around the neighborhood selling subscriptions to the
Journal
, and with each subscription he would offer one free kitten. He would think up a sales talk, like a Fuller Brush man. When he had made a list of
people who wanted to take the
Journal
in order to get a kitten, he would take it to Mr. Capper. And Mr. Capper would be so pleased with Henry that he would give him the paper route!

“Mom, how do you say it when you buy something because you want to get something that comes with it?” Henry asked, because he could not think of the word he needed for his sales talk. “You know—like buying a box of Oatsies because you want to get a space gun.”

Mrs. Huggins smiled. “Is
premium
the word you are trying to think of?”

“That's it. Thanks, Mom.” Premium! Henry would offer the kittens as premiums with subscriptions to the
Journal
. He could hardly wait to get started. Phrases he had heard on television, phrases like “absolutely free of charge” and “without cost or obligation,” buzzed through his head the rest of the evening.

The next morning Henry found a box the right size for carrying the kittens and then went into the kitchen to gather up his premiums, who preferred that room to any other. Ribsy's dish and the refrigerator were in the kitchen. Henry thought the kittens were pretty smart to understand that food was kept in the refrigerator.

“Thank goodness,” remarked Mrs. Huggins, as Henry caught the last kitten and put it into the box.

Henry stuck a couple of old cellophane bread wrappers together with Scotch tape, tied them over the top of the box, and poked holes in the top. Now people could see what nice kittens he had to offer. With a notebook and pencil in the hip pocket of his jeans, he started out to solicit subscriptions to the
Journal
and to find homes for his premiums while Ribsy, protesting, was left at home.

Henry, who had often seen Scooter
deliver the
Journal
on his block on Klickitat Street, knew which neighbors took the paper and which did not. He chose as his first prospect Mrs. Plummer, who lived two doors down the street.

“Good morning, Mrs. Plummer,” Henry said, in his most businesslike voice, when she opened the front door.

“Why, hello there, Henry,” said Mrs. Plummer, dusting some flour from her hands. “How are you?”

“I'm fine,” answered Henry. He stepped closer with his cellophane-covered box of kittens, and opened his mouth to start his sales talk.

“Goodness, Henry,” said Mrs. Plummer, before Henry had a chance to say a word, “I hope you aren't going to try to give me a kitten. If there is one thing Mr. Plummer can't stand, it's a cat. And you know the trouble with kittens. They grow up to be cats.”

“Uh…no.” Embarrassed, Henry tried to give himself time to think. “I mean, yes, they grow up to be cats—what I really mean is, I wanted to ask you if you would like to take the
Journal
. The kittens…well, I was just sort of…I happened to be carrying them.” Realizing this was no way to sell a newspaper, he added hastily, “The
Journal
is a very good paper. My dad reads it every day.”

“No, Henry,” said Mrs. Plummer. “One paper is enough for us, and we have taken the
Oregonian
so long I'm sure Mr. Plummer couldn't drink his breakfast coffee without it.”

“Well, thanks, anyway,” said Henry, feeling somewhat discouraged as he backed down the steps. On his way to the next house he had to stop and retie the cellophane over the top of the box. The exploring paw of Nosy had worked it loose.

The second time Henry rang a doorbell, he was determined to begin his sales talk
before his customer could start talking and say the wrong thing. “Good morning,” he said promptly to the lady who answered the door. “I have a special offer today. I am giving away absolutely free of charge one kitten with every new subscription to the
Journal
.” There! He had got in “absolutely free of charge,” just like a real salesman.

The lady smiled that annoying grown-up smile that showed she really thought Henry was funny, although she pretended not to. “I don't think I'd care for a kitten,” she said. “Could I subscribe to the paper without taking a kitten?”

Henry had not foreseen anything like this. “Well…I guess so,” he said, “but they are awfully nice kittens. They are playful and housebroken, most of the time, and…” Henry tried to think of some more of the kittens' good points, but the lady's look of amusement embarrassed him. “They are
without cost or obligation,” he said lamely.

“How much does the
Journal
cost?” the lady wanted to know.

Henry felt his ears turn red. He had been so busy thinking about his kittens that it had not occurred to him to find out the price of the paper. “I—I don't know,” he stammered, “but if you wanted a kitten, I'm sure it would be a bargain.”

“No, I don't want a kitten,” the lady persisted, looking as if she were about to laugh. “But I might take the
Journal
if I knew how much it costs.”

“I—I'll find out,” stammered Henry, and turned to go. He felt pretty silly. I'm sure some salesman, he thought, not even knowing the price of the paper I'm trying to sell. The Fuller Brush man wouldn't be able to sell a toothbrush if he did not know how much to charge. Henry decided, for the time being, to give up asking people to subscribe
to the
Journal
and just try to find homes for his kittens. He would ask twenty-five cents apiece.

Henry went up one side of the street and down the next, ringing doorbells and offering his kittens for sale. One lady was allergic to cats. Another had a dog that chased cats. A third just did not want a kitten. Henry lowered his price to fifteen cents.

At the next house Henry met a lady who owned a cat that had recently had five kittens. She said she would be glad to give Henry a kitten. At another house a boy said he had a pair of hamsters that he didn't think would be safe with a cat around. Henry lowered his price to ten cents and began to think about lunch.

At the next house a girl said she would take a yellow kitten, but when she asked her mother for ten cents she was told she could not have a kitten. Then Henry met a lady
who said she and her husband went to the mountains almost every weekend and no one would be home to feed the kitten while they were away. Henry, who was hungry, decided to give the kittens away.

At the next house Henry found the owner, whose name he knew was Mr. Pumphrey, cleaning out the garage. “Good morning. I have some very fine kittens,” Henry said quickly. “I am giving them away absolutely free of charge to people who will give them good homes.”

“That so?” remarked Mr. Pumphrey, putting down his broom.

He looks interested, thought Henry, and hurried on with his sales talk—if you could call it a sales talk when he was giving the kittens away. “The kittens are playful and housebroken most of the time and they could probably catch mice if you have any.” Henry spoke rapidly. “I am giving them
away without cost or obligation.”

“Very interesting,” said Mr. Pumphrey, leaning over to examine the kittens through the cellophane.

“Their grandmother was a long-haired cat,” said Henry, sure that this time he had found a home for at least one kitten. His luck was beginning to change. After Mr. Pumphrey had selected his kitten, he would go home for lunch and then find homes for the other kittens that afternoon. Henry took the cellophane off the box and held up a sample kitten. “See how healthy it is.”

Mr. Pumphrey smiled. Encouraged, Henry continued. “Its fur is nice and shiny. And clean, too. All the kittens wash a lot.” Now he was giving a real sales talk, as good as any Fuller Brush man.

“They do look clean and healthy,” agreed Mr. Pumphrey, and Henry beamed. One kitten had a good home! Perhaps Mr.
Pumphrey would like two kittens.

“Yes, they are mighty healthy kittens,” said Mr. Pumphrey. “I know, because they are the kittens I gave to the rummage sale.”

It took a moment for Mr. Pumphrey's words to sink in. “You gave…” Henry's smile faded and with it his hope for a good home for a kitten.

“Yes,” said Mr. Pumphrey. “You see, we're moving to Walla Walla, Washington, so we had to get rid of the kittens. We're taking the mother cat with us and we felt that one cat was enough to travel with. You know the trouble with kittens—”

“Yes,” said Henry quickly. He ought to know the trouble with kittens by now. Half a dozen people had told him.

“They grow up to be cats,” said Mr. Pumphrey, anyway. “But I'm glad you're finding good homes for them. We didn't have time to ask around, because we have so
much packing to do and so much junk to clean out of the basement and the attic.”

Henry managed a weak smile. “Well, thanks, anyway,” he said.

“Good luck,” said Mr. Pumphrey heartily.

I guess that takes care of that, thought Henry. The whole thing was clear now. People did not want kittens. He was tired, hungry, and discouraged, and he could see that there was only one thing left for him to do. That was to take the kittens to the pet shop and hope that Mr. Pennycuff would take them. If he wouldn't…Well, Henry could not bring himself to think about that possibility. Mr. Pennycuff
had
to take them. Wearily Henry started down the street in the direction of the pet shop. He never wanted to ring another doorbell as long as he lived.

“Hi there!” Scooter McCarthy called out as he stopped his bicycle at the curb beside Henry.

“What's in the box?”

“Kittens,” said Henry, and decided to make one more effort. “I'll give you a quarter if you'll give one of them a good home.”

“No, thanks,” said Scooter, and pedaled on down the street.

Henry was not disappointed, because he had not really expected Scooter to take a kitten. After all, Scooter did not need to earn a quarter. He had a paper route.

“Hello there, Henry,” said Mr. Pennycuff, when Henry entered the pet shop. “A pound of horse meat for Ribsy?”

“Not today,” said Henry, as he pulled the cellophane off the box. “I wondered if you could use some kittens.”

Mr. Pennycuff examined the kittens one at a time, while Henry watched uneasily. “I'll take them, but I can't pay you for them,” Mr. Pennycuff said at last. “I don't have too much call for kittens, and I have the expense
of feeding them until someone buys them.”

“That's all right,” said Henry quickly, before Mr. Pennycuff could change his mind.

Mr. Pennycuff set the kittens on the shredded newspaper in the front window and Henry stood watching them as they explored their temporary home. Nosy was the first to discover a post covered with a piece of carpet. He went to work sharpening his tiny claws.

“You won't let anybody take them who wouldn't give them good homes, will you?” Henry asked anxiously.

“Don't worry,” said Mr. Pennycuff, with a reassuring smile. “I always charge a dollar for a kitten, because I know that anyone who is willing to pay that much for a kitten will take good care of it.”

“Well, thanks, Mr. Pennycuff,” said Henry, petting Nosy for the last time. He
hoped this kitten would find an especially good home, with someone who would keep him supplied with cream and catnip mice. And feeling as if a great load had been lifted from his shoulders, Henry ran home as fast as he could. When he got there he found his
lunch waiting on the kitchen table.