Championship Ball. Clair Bee
is!” Old Pop twisted his head a bit and queried, “Say, Chipper, you had any more trouble with that no-good Fats guy?”
“No, Pop. Not lately.”
“Well, Chipper, don’t you forget—I trained some mighty good fighters in my time and I can fix you up—no foolin’.”
Chip laughed, and before he realized it he found himself back on street level. He didn’t even remember limping down the steps. He was thinking about that championship basketball and the player who had done most to win it—his dad.
Mike Sorelli was in a gay mood. The Academy was thronged, and on every table the little brown leather jugs were sending their dancing pills clattering across the green felt time and time again. Kelly pool was a popular game with the pottery workers at any time, but on Saturdays, the day after payday, the stakes were high and the house take mounted fast. Sometimes there were so many players at one table that those who drew a high pill never had a chance to shoot.
Joel Ohlsen liked to drop into the Academy on Saturdays, but he was careful to park his car by the Ferris home in the next block. His father seldom looked right or left when he was driven to and from the pottery, but Joel didn’t care to risk being seen.
The crowd from the pottery was not too fond of Joel. But the workers didn’t mind getting a little of J. P.’s money without working for it, even though they did say it was like taking candy from a baby. Fats could make a show of his money here and buy a certain amount of attention even when he lost—which was most of the time.
Mike greeted Joel with a smile and waved toward the back of the room. “They’re just starting on table nine, Ohlsen, if you want to play—”
It was nearly midnight before Ohlsen had lost all the money he had in his pocket, and nearly one o’clock when he made his way on tiptoe up the stairs to his room. J. P. was always early to bed and early to rise, and Joel knew the dressing down he would get if he were heard coming in at this hour.
Although Mrs. Ohlsen often pleaded with Joel to come home early, she never told J. P. about his late hours. On the few occasions J. P. missed him, Joel had said he was studying at Stinky’s. This was always a safe alibi. The Ferris family could not afford a telephone, and J. P. never went to the flats after dark, except when there was an emergency at the plant.
As Joel stood before his bathroom mirror brushing his teeth, the image reflected in the glass wore a sullen look. Why did he keep on hanging around Sorelli’s dump when everyone kept taking him for a ride? . . . Why did everyone pick on him all the time . . . fellows like Chip Hilton? . . . Gosh, they used to play together from morning to night when they were kids. . . . He’d licked Chip in a fair fight, hadn’t he. . . .
Something stirred in the boy’s memory. . . . After all, he was the one who had built up that quarrel and kept it alive . . . and the fight, well, he wasn’t too proud of his end of it . . . still, Chip did have all the luck. . . . That smashed leg? . . . Yes, but the guy had it coming to him. . . .
Why should everybody make a hero of Hilton? . . . After all, just because his dad had been an All-American, why should Chip throw his weight around? . . . Did people think you were nobody if you didn’t wear a big VF and be a slave to that conceited Rockwell? . . . Why be a kid all your life? . . . a fellow had to be a man of the world these days. . . .
What right did birds like Chip and Biggie and all those bohunks at the pottery have to look down on an Ohlsen . . . and why did he always have to lose at Kelly pool with all those bums laughing at him?
Joel Ohlsen turned off the light and climbed into bed feeling very sorry for himself. Someday he’d get even with the whole crowd, but even this realization was of small comfort as he lay there wide awake in the dark.
CHAPTER 4
THREE-MAN BASKETBALL
THE big table was loaded with steaming food, and Mrs. Hilton was hovering over the boys, pretending to be worried about their appetites. Mary Hilton didn’t talk much, but Chip’s pals would have been amazed at her knowledge of their problems, habits, and ambitions.
Once or twice a week, usually on Friday evenings and sometimes on Sunday afternoons, Chip would invite some of the boys over for dinner. And what a dinner it would be! Mrs. Hilton was second to none when it came to cooking. Today Chip had invited the three basketball veterans—Speed, Red Schwartz, and Buzz Todd. Taps Browning and Soapy Smith didn’t need invitations—they had just barged in. Mrs. Browning declared that Taps was the star boarder at the Hilton home.
Table talk ranged from exams, term papers, notebooks, to teachers. After dinner and after dishes—here Taps and Soapy were the goats—everything centered on sports.
“How’s it feel to be through with football, Speed?” asked Taps.
“Plenty good!”
“Going out for basketball right away?”
“Sure!” Speed looked at Taps in surprise. “Why not?”
“Thought you might be tired—”
“I never get tired!” Speed was emphatic.
“Well, a week’s rest wouldn’t do you any harm,” interposed Soapy.
“Yes, and you might get stale,” ventured Taps.
“You gotta be good to be stale,” flashed Speed.
“Rock says staleness is due to a tired mind,” volunteered Red Schwartz.
“That lets Speed out.” Soapy grinned. “He doesn’t have to worry about brain fatigue.”
“What brain?” challenged Red.
Speed remained smilingly unperturbed by the laughter which accompanied the needling.
Buzz Todd changed the subject. “See the Rock yesterday, Chip?” he asked.
“Sure did!”
“Do any manager’s work?”
“No, but we looked at the pictures of last year’s Weston game and Coach gave me the low-down on my job. Looks tough!”
“You’ll soon find out!” Red Schwartz shook his head as he spoke. “Greg had to do everything—set up the tickets, the passes, take charge of the ticket money, wrap ankles, keep score, help Pop with rubdowns, check equipment, and a thousand other things—to say nothing of putting up with Rock when he went temperamental.”
“He gave me an outline,” continued Chip. “I think Greg must have been four other guys,” he added with a long sigh.
“Four other guys is right,” agreed Red. “Greg took a lot of punishment from Rock.”
“Rock isn’t so bad,” interrupted Speed. “He might bawl a guy out once in a while, but no one else better do it.”
“Yeah,” agreed Red. “When Coach is with you, he’s with you!”
“Speaking of that,” said Speed, “remember last year when Rock and Jenkins tangled? ’Member, Chip?”
“I saw that game,” said Soapy. “What was wrong with those guys?”
“It was all on account of Greg,” said Speed.
“What happened?” asked Taps.
“It’s a long story. Chip, you tell it.”
“No, you tell it,” protested Chip.
“Go ahead, Speed,” urged Buzz.
“You really want to hear it? Heck, you fellows were there!”
“I never did know the inside story,” said Soapy.
“Aw, let’s coax him, girls,” mimicked