Championship Ball. Clair Bee
fixed everything, didn’t he?” growled Ohlsen. “Nearly lost Valley Falls the championship, broke his leg, wrecked Piggie’s Packard, and worried his poor mother sick; just because he wanted to be the conquering hero and come riding home ahead of the team.”
“Is that so?” drawled a lazy voice.
Biggie Cohen, unnoticed before, had been standing in the shadow of the wall which separated the drugstore from the Sugar Bowl. Now the big football tackle moved slowly over in front of Ohlsen. Placing his hands on his hips he looked straight into Joel’s eyes. The others began to press back against the big glass window. Everything about Biggie expressed overpowering emotion.
“Is that so?” he repeated, his black eyes glittering angrily.
Ohlsen grew red, stammered, and vainly tried to find words. “I—I—” he began.
“I know,” Biggie growled. “You’re a great talker—behind a fellow’s back.” He flashed forward. Before Fats could move, Biggie had pressed him back against the building.
“Leave Chip Hilton alone! Understand—Fat Stuff?”
“Sure—sure, Biggie,” welched Fats.
“Okay, don’t forget it!” Biggie disdainfully turned his back on Fats, took a few steps, and then again faced Fats. “In case you don’t know it, wise guy, Chip had as much to do with the winning of that game as anyone. He figured out the scoring play that tied the game and got Rock to let Speed drop-kick the winning point.”
He turned to the others in the stilled group. “You guys oughta be ashamed of yourselves. Chip plays his heart out in everything he does—and you know it!” His voice was cold and hard.
The group broke up quietly. Biggie had completely spoiled that little round-table discussion.
Joel Ohlsen and Stinky Ferris were almost home before a word was spoken. Suddenly Ohlsen blurted out, “I hate that guy!”
“Biggie?”
“Yeah, him and Hilton both—I’ll get even with them if it takes me twenty years!”
Joel’s father, Joel Palmer Ohlsen, Sr., was one of the richest men in Valley Falls. As long as anyone in the town could remember, J. P. Ohlsen had been a dominant figure in the town’s destiny. Everyone in Valley Falls knew the wealthy and aggressive man as “J. P.” Tall, angular, and dictatorial in manner, he ruled his business associates and his employees with an iron hand. Yet, withal, he was eminently fair and just. Joel, Jr., was J. P.’s only son and his only weakness.
J. P. Ohlsen owned the town’s biggest lumber- and coalyard, about all the houses in town—everyone said—and was the president and main stockholder of the pottery, Valley Falls’ chief enterprise.
“Biggie’s tough,” Stinky said hesitantly.
“Yeah?” snarled Joel. “Wait and see! Bigger they are—harder they fall!”
“Think you can lick Biggie?” persisted Stinky.
“You don’t think I’m crazy enough to bust one of the town’s idols, do you?”
“Don’t know—guess you can whip Hilton, though.”
“Did it once; I’ll do it again, too!”
“Hilton had a bad leg, didn’t he?” ventured Stinky. Then he quickly asked, “What’ve you got against Hilton, anyway? What’d he ever do to you?”
“Plenty! Think I’m gonna forget who started calling me ‘Fat Stuff’?”
“What’s so serious about that? Heck, Joel, you are fat! Anyway, Hilton just did that in fun.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t think it’s funny. You better watch out how you talk, too!” Ohlsen was in an ugly mood, and the two parted in silence.
Completely oblivious of the scene in front of the drugstore, Chip had scarcely moved from his position at Mr. Schroeder’s desk when Speed Morris barged through the storeroom door. He was closely followed by Taps Browning. Morris waved a little book at Chip and exploded: “Hey, listen! Listen to this story about Ike Eisenhower.”
Chip, accustomed to Speed’s violent enthusiasms, slowly turned his head toward Taps and cautiously winked one eye.
Unperturbed by Chip’s lack of interest, Morris continued, “Eisenhower went out for football at West Point and broke his leg—” Shaking his head in a determined manner and enunciating each word slowly, he went on, “—and then he became a cheerleader!”
“I don’t believe it!” said Chip, swinging his body around and easing his leg up on a chair. “Let’s see!”
Chip’s eyes were glued to the book but, before he had finished the first page, he was interrupted by Taps.
“Hey!” Taps was standing over him, his head scraping the ceiling light, arms swinging, a veritable flag pole. “Hey, Chip! That gives me an idea! Why don’t you try out for basketball manager? Greg Lewis had to quit school—bet you’d get it.” Taps was excited.
“Me? A manager?” Chip laughed. “Get out!”
“What’s the matter with that?” challenged Speed. Then without waiting for an answer he continued with mock sarcasm: “Oh, the great Chip Hilton—why, he wouldn’t think of being a manager. Eisenhower could be a cheerleader at West Point, but that’s different—he was just an ordinary guy!”
For a moment Chip’s temper flared, and his gray eyes narrowed angrily. All the frustration that had gnawed at his heart as he sat in the bleachers during the final game of the recent football season came near to finding an outlet now in bitter words. . . . Speed probably didn’t realize how it felt to be barred from sports. . . . Why a fellow burned all up inside just watching. . . . Sitting on the bench was bad enough, but to an athlete the thought of a permanent grandstand seat was unbearable. Slowly regaining his composure, he ventured, “Well, I didn’t mean it that way, but—”
“But what?” persisted Speed.
Chip’s thoughts ran on . . . Speed was one of his best friends . . . he couldn’t quarrel with Speed . . . why, he had shared everything with him . . . they had been classmates ever since they had started school . . . just the same, how could he ask Coach Rockwell to make him manager?
He looked up and then grinned slowly. “But nothing.”
“Well, what about it?” persisted Speed. “We gotta have you around some way!”
Chip raised himself to a standing position and thought it over. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad after all . . . might give him something to think about . . . if he got the job . . . at least he wouldn’t have to sit in the bleachers. . . .
Shaking his head and eying Speed with distaste he sighed resignedly, “Okay, Mr. Fixit! Okay.”
“You mean it?” Speed asked eagerly.
“Sure!”
“Gee, that’s swell,” breathed Taps.
“Okay, Toots, take a letter!” Speed wasted no time. “To Coach Henry Rockwell, Valley Falls High School: Dear Coach—”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Chip. “Maybe Rock won’t want me around after what happened—”
“Forget it. That’s ancient history.” Speed shook his head impatiently. “Never look over your shoulder, me lad,” he quipped. “I’ll fix it!”
The next half-hour was a turmoil of suggestions, criticisms, and heated debate, but at last the letter was finished. Speed grabbed it from Chip’s reluctant hand and dashed for the door. “Be right back, Chipper, soon as I mail this.”
Pivoting quickly, he barged across the room, threw a fake shoulder block at a packing box and half-ran, half-fell, through the door.