Henry and Ribsy (Henry Huggins #3)(23)
“It sure was,” agreed Mr. Huggins. An uncomfortable silence fell on all three. “Sorry about the salmon, Grumbie,” added Mr. Huggins.
“Must have been a twenty-five-pounder,” said Mr. Grumbie regretfully.
Henry didn’t want to look at Mr. Grumbie. “I’m sorry, too,” he said, as he ran his hand along Ribsy’s tail to wipe off some of the water. “I guess Ribsy had never seen a salmon before and it scared him. I know he didn’t mean to make you lose it.”
“Henry, how would you like to take Ribsy to the boathouse to dry out?” asked his father.
“Good idea,” said Mr. Grumbie.
“OK, Dad,” agreed Henry, because he wanted to get his dog warm and dry again. But from the way Mr. Grumbie spoke he knew he would have to stay there the rest of the day. And his chance to catch a salmon was gone. Henry looked sadly at his dog.
Ribsy stood up and shook himself until his license tags jingled.
7
Henry’s Adventure
Well, I guess it wasn’t your fault.” Henry looked glumly at Ribsy, huddled in front of the electric heater in Mike’s boathouse. It did seem as though his dog got him into a lot of trouble. Now, after all his bragging, he wouldn’t get to take a salmon home to show people. As for Mr. Grumbie—Henry did not like to think about the long ride home in the same car with him. He knew Mr. Grumbie would be thinking about his lost salmon and blaming it on Ribsy.
Henry looked out of the window at the scales hanging from the eaves and sighed. Because of Ribsy he had lost his chance to hang a fish on that hook and watch the hand spin around to twenty-five.
“What time is it?” Henry asked the boathouse man.
“Five after two,” answered Mike.
Five minutes past two. It would be at least three hours before his father would be through fishing, and Henry had eaten all his lunch hours ago—with Ribsy’s help, of course. He wished he had some money so he could go across to the restaurant and buy a hamburger.
Henry amused himself looking at the pictures of fishermen with their catches that covered the walls of the boathouse. He examined a case full of tackle for sale. Then he looked through a telescope that stood by a window. He focused it on his father and Mr. Grumbie, but he couldn’t see any salmon in their boat. If Mr. Grumbie should catch a whopper, the ride home would not be so bad.
Henry turned the telescope on the other boats. If some of the other fishermen were pulling in salmon, maybe Mr. Grumbie would land one, too. When Henry came to the last boat in line he looked, twisted the adjuster, and looked again. Was that Scooter McCarthy and his father? It looked like them, but the brims of their hats were turned down so far Henry could not be sure. Lots of men wore black raincoats and almost every boy had a yellow slicker, so it might be somebody else. Henry hoped so. If he had to watch Scooter come in lugging a salmon, even a silverside, he didn’t know what he would do.
“Smells kind of doggy in here, doesn’t it?” remarked Mike.
“My dog is almost dry,” answered Henry, as he rubbed his foot through a puddle of water that had dripped off Ribsy.
A man came in to buy some tackle. He sniffed and looked around. “I thought it smelled like wet dog in here,” he said, when he saw Ribsy.
Henry began to feel uncomfortable, almost unwelcome.
Two women came in to look at their husbands through the telescope. They glanced at Ribsy and frowned. “I don’t think there’s anything that smells quite so bad as a wet dog,” said one of the women, as she adjusted the telescope.
“Come on, Ribsy, let’s go outdoors.” Henry didn’t think Ribsy smelled so bad—just a little extra doggy, was all. But if they weren’t wanted, well, they’d wait someplace else. Henry sighed and wondered what they would do the rest of the long afternoon. It wouldn’t be so bad if only he was not so hungry.
Outside, Henry looked over the row of parked cars. Third from the end he found a green two-door Ford, deluxe model, with nylon seat covers, a Yellowstone National Park sticker on the windshield, and a Mount Rainier National Park sticker on the rear window. There could be no doubt about it. That car surely belonged to Scooter’s father.
“Let’s go down to the beach,” Henry said to his dog. “Then maybe we won’t have to see old Scooter when he comes in with all those fish he’ll probably catch. You’d think with the whole Pacific Ocean full of fish he could have gone someplace else.”
The rain had stopped and the wind blew ragged clouds across the blue sky. Henry and his dog followed a sandy road that wound through piles of driftwood—logs and stumps, boards and boxes, all bleached gray by the sea—until they came to the hard wet sand along the breakers. Henry looked at the people fishing from the sandbars and then wandered along the beach. He threw sticks into the breakers to see them carried up on the sand and then get sucked back into the ocean by the undertow. He picked up a few shells and examined a jellyfish lying on the sand. And all the time he was thinking about the salmon he wouldn’t catch and wondering how he could face Mr. Grumbie on the way home.
“Come on, Ribsy, race you!” Henry called above the roar of the surf. Ribsy stopped trying to chase seagulls. Leaving a border of paw prints along the edge of the waves, he ran up the beach ahead of Henry.
Henry began to enjoy himself. He made a game of seeing how close to the water he could run without letting the waves touch his shoes. Gradually the sun sank toward the ocean, and Henry knew it would not be long before his father and Mr. Grumbie would be through fishing for the day. He decided it was time to start back to the boathouse. “Here, Ribsy,” he called.