Meet the Malones (Beany Malone Series Book 1) Read online

  MEET

  THE

  MALONES

  LENORA MATTINGLY WEBER

  Illustrated by

  GERTRUDE HOWE

  Image Cascade Publishing

  www.ImageCascade.com

  ORIGINAL COPYRIGHT © 1943

  BY LENORA MATTINGLY WEBER

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except by a reviewer, without the permission of the publisher.

  MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  A hardcover edition of this book was originally published by Thomas Y. Crowell Company. It is here reprinted by arrangement with HarperCollins Publishers, New York.

  First Image Cascade Publishing edition published 1999.

  Copyright renewed © 1971 by David Weber.

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Weber, Lenora Mattingly, 1895-1971.

  Meet the Malones.

  (Juvenile Girls)

  Reprint. Originally published: New York: Thomas Y.

  Crowell, 1943.

  ISBN 978-0-963960-73-3

  To LARRY AND TOMMY

  who can use up paper faster and clutter up

  a study floor quicker than any author.

  CONTENTS

  1. Hello, Mr. Chips!

  2. The Fractured Eggs

  3. Beany Tells Her Heart's Desire

  4. The New Regime

  5. The Hero of Harkness High

  6. Father Calls a Council

  7. Elizabeth Comes Home

  8. The Spring Formal Grows Formidable

  9. Setting a Backfire

  10. Swing Your Pardner!

  11. Lady Eleanor Cake

  12. Fairy Godmother

  13. From Mop-Squeezer to Queen

  14. “What Is the Matter with Johnny?”

  15. “Goodbye, Mr. Chips!”

  16. A Border of Angels

  17. Discipline

  18. Small Strangers in a Big Land

  19. From Queen to Mop-Squeezer

  1

  Hello, Mr. Chips!

  MARY FRED MALONE had just bought a horse. He was black and his name was Mr. Chips and Mary Fred was riding him home. The January wind had the moist breath of snow as it rippled the bridle reins, flapped the green scarf over Mary Fred’s unruly dark hair, tugged at the end knotted under her tanned, squarish chin. She thought, “I’ve bought a horse.” The thought could still startle her. For certainly she had not had the slightest intention of buying a horse with the money which had been sent her to buy a formal for the spring prom at school.

  Mary Fred rode down the sandy road that led from the Hilltop Stables toward the outskirts of Denver, and the very rhythm of Mr. Chips’ trot, the very flapping of her scarf in the wind kept time to an excited singsong inside her, “Mr. Chips is mine—all mine. He’s nobody else’s but mine!” And Mr. Chips’ ear kept twitching back, as though he didn’t want to miss a word of it. She reached over and patted his warm, black, sinewy shoulder.

  Mary Fred Malone was sixteen now. She had been riding at the Hilltop Stables since she was eleven and had come out in a school club to learn to ride. All that time she had loved the black horse, Mr. Chips, with his two white forefeet and the splash of white in his forehead that someone said had started out to be a star and then fell. He was a wise and gentle horse. Their whole class had learned to ride on him, and then, later, to take the hurdles.

  From the Hilltop Riding Stables to Mary Fred’s home was four and a half miles. She knew because she often drove out with her chum, Lila Sears, when Lila’s mother let her take her car. Lila’s mother was the kind who charted every quarter-hour in Lila’s life for her. “It’s four and a half miles between here and the stables,” she would say firmly, “so you girls can ride for an hour and then leave there promptly at five-thirty. That will give you time, Lila, to drop Mary Fred off” (for Mary Fred lived only a block from Lila), “and be home in time to change for dinner at six.” And since the Japanese had fired on Pearl Harbor in early December, she always added, “Remember, our country is at war, so don’t waste gasoline.”

  Just as Mary Fred and Mr. Chips reached the bridge which crossed the sand creek, a car’s honking sounded behind them, and she pulled Mr. Chips to one side. It was Lila in her mother’s roadster. If Mary Fred hadn’t been riding her new purchase she would have been there in the seat beside her, dividing a candy bar.

  Lila sat a moment regarding Mary Fred and her newly bought black horse, and her expression of anxiety and admiration was typical of Lila. Since they were four years old, Lila had tagged at Mary Fred’s heels every minute she could escape her mother’s jurisdiction, and because she was so dominated herself she worshiped Mary Fred for her unhampered initiative.

  But now she said worriedly, “Honest, Mary Fred, you better change your mind and take Mr. Chips back.”

  “I can’t,” Mary Fred said with an overbright smile. “Mack said I couldn’t bring him back. He said as long as I had spoiled his sale of Mr. Chips to the farmer, I’d have to stick to my bargain.”

  “Did you pay for him?” Lila asked.

  “I paid him that fifteen dollars I had with me—you know I brought it along because we were going to shop for our formals. And I promised to finish paying Mack the other fifteen for Mr. Chips just as soon as I could.”

  Mary Fred and Lila had planned to meet Lila’s mother at a dress shop on Colfax Avenue after their ride and start hunting for dresses to wear to the big Spring Formal in March. Lila often said that her mother stalked dress bargains with the same zest that a hunter stalked his prey.

  “If only you hadn’t had that fifteen dollars with you!” Lila lamented. “My grandad always said that money or a gun in your jeans could get the best-intentioned fellow into trouble. If only those doggoned old new boots of mine hadn’t pinched my feet so I had to go change them and leave you there with Mr. Chips.”

  For it had been in those brief moments while Lila was changing out of her stiff new boots that Mary Fred had drifted over to the stall where a black head looked out wistfully.

  Mack, the owner of Hilltop Stables, had explained to them that he would have to sell the horse for a low price because of a strained tendon in his right foreleg. Mack, who was a kind owner, had sighed. He hated to part with Mr. Chips; he’d never had a horse as sweet-tempered, as generous, as understanding. The leg would be all right if it were humored for a few months, but, because Mack had so many clubs taking military riding, he had to fill every stall with an active, rentable horse. He was selling Mr. Chips cheap to a neighboring farmer.

  “Why didn’t you let the farmer buy him?” Lila wanted to know.

  Mary Fred took a long breath. “Well, I was standing there by Mr. Chips’ stall and he was kind of nuzzling at my shoulder—”

  “He’s always been crazy about you, Mary Fred,” Lila said.

  “—and this farmer came in and he was dirty and smelly and mean—you know the kind who wouldn’t even give his kids or his wife a kind word—and he reached up and yanked Mr. Chips’ head down and started to pry open his mouth to look at his teeth and Mr. Chips reared his head back and the fellow cuffed him hard right on his nose and—and, honestly, it made me sick. Sweet old Chips!”

  “I know,” Lila said soberly, remembering back to when she, a scared little beginner, had climbed up on his steady back. “I never could have taken my first hurdle if Mr. Chips hadn’t—oh, kind of promised me he’d see me through.”

  A few heavy flakes of snow came sifting down. Mary Fred stared at the fragile perfection of a frosty star on her green-gloved hand. “You’d better go on, L
ila,” she said, “and meet your mother. It’s going to snow.”

  Lila reached for the starter, shook her head sadly. “It worries me for you to be taking that horse home. Even though you’re a Malone. My folks would just hit the ceiling—and I can’t even imagine what would happen to me when they came down.”

  Mary Fred watched after Lila’s car as Mr. Chips jogged on. Nor could she, Mary Fred, imagine what would happen to Lila if she ever did anything not previously sanctioned by her mother. Lila couldn’t buy a pair of stockings without her mother at her elbow choosing the shade, deciding on the price. Lila’s whole life was bordered by the phrase, “But Mother thinks—” Mary Fred remembered one time when they had been at the neighborhood store and Lila had lamb chops on her list. The butcher had no lamb chops and Mary Fred said, “Why don’t you get ham?” But Lila didn’t dare. She had to telephone her mother and ask what she should substitute for the lamb chops.

  It had never been that way in the Malone home. The young Malones made their own decisions about lamb chops and life. “Dictators only make you soft inside,” Mother used to say, and then she’d look at Father and smile, “I married in a hurry to escape dictatorship.”

  Mary Fred’s mother had been dead three years now, but her father had the same ideas about young people making their own decisions. He wouldn’t hit the ceiling when she told him she had bought a black horse. He would only say soberly, “Well, Mary Fred, if you’ve bought a horse, then that’s your responsibility. You’ll have to take care of him no matter what hardship it works upon you.” She could feel his very gentle gravity; it reached through the excitement of buying Mr. Chips and riding him home.

  Mr. Chips’ limping became more pronounced as the miles grew. Mary Fred’s happy exultancy had slowed down, too. Now the chant inside her seemed to keep time to that querulous tune, “What you goin’ to do when the rent comes ’round?” Only the words were, “What you goin’ to do when you get your horse home? What you goin’ to say? How you goin’ to pay?”

  That was it! How was she going to pay? Fifteen dollars to Mack besides the steady output for hay and oats for Mr. Chips. She hadn’t thought of that when she had said so impulsively, “I’ll buy Mr. Chips.”

  She was almost at the city limits now, though the snow was swirling down so heavily she could see neither the university buildings nor the myriad of cozy homes she usually saw from this rise. She hated to ride a limping horse. She slid out of the saddle and walked along, leading him.

  The snow kept balling up on the heels of her riding boots. Deliberately she shifted from her worried thoughts to some that were more pleasant. She remembered that this was the day her brother Johnny was to trade in his old typewriter for a newer one. She tried to walk fast for she had promised him that she’d be home in time to clean off his big old desk, which had started life as a mission table and which Johnny and she, hoping to dandy it up, had once painted blue. Yes, today was the day Johnny was to turn in his old high-busted typewriter and pay down his savings—not for a brandnew typewriter, but for one that would not skip two spaces or none at all when you hit the space bar, and would not write all the s’s, m’s, and u’s as capitals.

  In short, Johnny’s old typewriter was as unpredictable as Johnny himself. Mary Fred’s fond smile became a chuckle at the thought of him. He was fifteen, a year younger than Mary Fred, and the genius of the Malone family. He could be handsome if he ever settled down to it, with his soft black eyes and endearing flash of smile. But his hair was always too long and a lank swoop of its blackness never stayed put, so that his younger and more practical sister Beany was always saying, “Johnny, push your hair out of your eyes.”

  Johnny was a sophomore at Harkness High where Lila and Mary Fred were juniors. Johnny could write. Whenever there was an essay contest on “What America Means to Me,” or “Radio in Education,” other contestants grumbled, “No use us entering if Johnny Malone does.” He was the delight of his English Lit teacher, gray-haired, gray-eyed, gray-garbed Miss Hewlitt. This year the school had put on a gay-nineties farce and a Christmas play, both of which Johnny had written on his space-jumping, capital-writing machine.

  Again and again Johnny had been delayed in his acquiring of a better typewriter because of his half ownership in an eleven-year-old red car that was always needing a new fuel pump, or gasket, or headlight. Johnny and his friend Carlton Buell, who lived next door to the Malones, had purchased this bright red jalopy together. Although Johnny was half owner of the car, he wasn’t old enough to procure a driver’s license. It was often torture for him to keep his hand off the wheel and to get Carlton or Mary Fred to drive him places.

  Johnny had one other trait which was a constant exasperation to his thirteen-year-old sister, Beany. He had such large-scale ideas. He could never buy a little bit of anything. If they sent him to the store for ham to fry, he would return with a whole ham. Beany never took down the pint bottle of almond extract without muttering, “That Johnny! We’ll have almond extract the rest of our life, just because I asked him to get a little to flavor some icing.”

  The snow was coming down in great wet flurries by the time Mary Fred reached the edge of town. There was not much farther to go. She stopped and thumped her cold hands together, squirmed her foot on which the boot had rubbed a blister. Mack had given her a gunny sack half full of oats, to last Mr. Chips until she could buy some for him, and it hung with its weight divided over Mr. Chips’ shoulders. She shook the clinging snow off it, too.

  Mary Fred took a few steps, stopped again to reach inside her boot and pull her stocking smooth over her rubbed heel. She was leaning over with her weight against Mr. Chips’ foreleg and shoulder, when through the heavy air came the screech of brakes, a woman’s startled “Oh! Oh-h-h!—” and then the thudding, scraping impact of two cars coming together.

  Mr. Chips’ startled lurch sent Mary Fred sprawling in the snow. Scrambling up quickly, she blinked the snow off her eyelashes and looked in the direction of the sounds. She gave a shocked and frightened cry. She pulled hard at the unwilling horse as she ran forward.

  2

  The Fractured Eggs

  THROUGH the veil of snow several things leaped out at Mary Fred. First Johnny’s and Carlton’s red car sitting sideways in the road with its front fenders folded under. And there was Johnny picking something off the ground. She came closer and saw the rest of the picture.

  A small truck with a Wyoming license plate had evidently been hit, and the jolt had knocked one egg case out on the ground and tipped the other over in the back of the truck. It was eggs that Johnny was picking up, looking miserable and unkempt and with the snow coating his black shock of hair.

  And there was the woman who had screamed out, “Oh! Oh—h–h!” She was sitting on the running board of the Wyoming truck, crying. She was holding her handkerchief to her mouth as though there was something about her teeth she wanted to hide.

  Suddenly another figure, who must have been bending over on the other side of the truck, straightened up, and his hands, too, were full of eggs. Mary Fred stared at him. He looked a little like a picture of a cowboy in a rodeo advertisement, only more sober-hued. He wasn’t wearing a doeskin vest, plaid shirt, and fringed chaps, but you felt they belonged on him by the very swing to his body and the extra breadth to his hat brim, by the farsighted look in his eyes which seemed startlingly blue in his bronze face. He stooped over again to get some eggs that had rolled halfway under the truck.

  Mary Fred could almost fill in the details of what had happened. For some reason Carlton, the lawful driver of the car, had been detained at school; and Johnny, all eagerness to put through his typewriter deal, had driven home, picked up his old typewriter and his savings, and set out for school so that Carlton could drive them downtown. Yes, there sat his old dilapidated typewriter on the seat of the red car.

  Mary Fred guided Mr. Chips so he wouldn’t step on the spilled eggs. She said, “Gosh, Johnny, what happened?”

  “Why hello, Mar
y Fred. It—it was all my fault,” he admitted. “I turned right in front of them. I should have been more careful. I guess I was thinking of something else.”

  Mary Fred groaned inwardly, “I guess you were, Johnny—you’re always thinking of something else.”

  Mary Fred asked the crying woman, “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” she said, “only I’m kind of shook-up—seeing all those eggs spilled and broken that I’ve been saving so long. I was bringing in two cases of them to pay the dentist for some work I have to have done.”

  Johnny said quickly, “I’ll pay for the eggs. How much did you figure you’d get for them? I’ll take them all home—some are only a little bit cracked, and a few are still in one piece. Our family likes eggs. And I’ll pay for the damages to your car, too.”

  The shrill of a siren interrupted. A police car skidded to a stop across the street and two bulky representatives of the law got out. Their blue uniforms loomed up ominously through the blur of snow. Mary Fred’s heart pounded in dread. Just let them find out that Johnny was driving without a license!

  The first terse question was the same one Mary Fred had asked, “What happened here?”

  The tall young cowboy stepped forward. “We’ve just about got it settled between us. I don’t believe you’ll need to make any record of the case. There’s no harm done and no one hurt.”

  “I’m going to pay for the eggs,” Johnny put in.

  For one awful minute Mary Fred thought she saw the policeman’s eyes measuring Johnny’s tall immaturity and that she’d hear him snap out, “You’re not more than fifteen, are you? Let’s see your driver’s license.” But instead he said relievedly, “That’s the best way to do—settle it between yourselves. Take it to court and there’s a lot of time and money wasted. There’s more automobile accidents with nobody willing to take any blame.” He looked at the sniffling woman, then at the young cowboy. “This your mother here? You ain’t hurt are you, lady?”