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be real careful. Honest, I would.”
    â€œWe-l-ll.” Scooter thought a minute. “All right. You can take the route, but you better not get me in trouble. I’ll give you a list of customers next week.”
    â€œGee, thanks, Scooter,” said Henry gratefully.
    Jeepers, another dollar for his bike fund! Henry made up his mind he’d do such a good job delivering papers that Scooter would want him to take the route when he went away during summer vacation. Then he would really make some money for the fund. He could see himself walking down Klickitat Street throwing papers onto porches with an experienced flip of his wrist. Still better, he pictured himself riding down the street on a shiny red bike with his snap-on raccoon tail floating from the handle bars. Boy, oh boy, he was getting closer to that bike all the time.
    Then he noticed the tightly rolled Journal lying on the lawn. That gave him an idea. Instead of training Ribsy to fetch his father’s slippers, he would teach him to bring in the paper every night. “Fetch, Ribsy,” he said. “Fetch the paper.”
    Ribsy sat thumping his tail on the lawn.
    â€œAw, come on.” Henry picked up the paper and held it under Ribsy’s nose. Then he threw it. Still Ribsy sat. He was used to fetching sticks, not newspapers. He turned and chewed at a flea on his back.
    â€œCome on, you old dog.” Henry showed Ribsy the paper again. Ribsy glanced at it and settled himself with his nose on his paws. Henry threw the paper half a dozen times, but Ribsy paid no attention. Thinking how silly he must look, throwing a paper and fetching it himself while his dog watched, Henry held the Journal behind his back. With his other hand he picked up the stick. “Ribsy, look,” he ordered.
    At the sight of the stick Ribsy sprang to his feet. “Wuf,” he said, wagging his tail expectantly.
    Henry pretended he was going to throw the stick. Instead, he tossed the paper. Before he knew the difference, Ribsy bounded after it and caught it in his mouth.

    When the dog dropped the paper at his feet, Henry patted him. “Good dog, Ribsy,” he said. “Good old Ribsy.”
    Ribsy wriggled, and wagged his tail with delight. The next time Henry threw the paper, he sprang to fetch it. “Good dog,” Henry said approvingly. “I guess you’re just about the smartest dog around here.”
    The next day was Sunday. Henry, who always woke up earlier than his mother and father, decided to read the funnies in the Journal , which was delivered early on Sunday morning. He tiptoed out to the porch, expecting to pick up the paper as he always did. Instead, he stood staring in horror at what he saw. There was not just one Journal on the door mat. There was a whole pile of them. Ribsy sat beside the papers, wagging his tail and looking pleased with himself.
    Henry groaned. “Did you pick up all these and bring them here?” he asked Ribsy in a whisper.
    Thump, thump, thump. Ribsy wagged his tail. Then he stood up and wagged his whole body.
    â€œYou old dog,” muttered Henry crossly, as he counted the papers. There were seventeen Journals on his door mat. Fortunately, the Oregonian carrier was late this morning. What if Ribsy had collected two kinds of newspapers and piled them on the door mat?
    Seventeen Journals ! Henry wondered how he could ever face Scooter. And now he wouldn’t get to earn the dollar. He wouldn’t get to deliver papers when Scooter went to camp during summer vacation. But worst of all was the way Scooter would behave after this. He would never, never forget that Henry’s dog had got him in trouble with his Journal customers.
    Henry scowled at Ribsy, who looked puzzled because he hadn’t been praised for retrieving all those papers. Henry knew he had to think of something, and fast, too. Then he remembered that Klickitat Street was the beginning of Scooter’s route, and because it