where I belong, anyway.”
“Look, Chip, college is nearly two years away. We’ve got this year and then our senior year before college. Let’s forget about it until after graduation. Okay?”
“Guess so. Well,” Chip gestured toward the scrap-book and the scattered clippings, “guess I’d better buy some post cards and change that thing to a photograph album.”
“That leg’s only gonna need a little rest and time. Quit beefin’! Bet you’re playing baseball by spring. Anyway, there’s more to school than athletics!”
“Coming from you, that’s good!” exclaimed Chip, moving dejectedly toward the door where the scrap-book lay in a heap on the floor.
“Jeeps!” shouted Speed, glancing at his watch, “I’m late for supper! Mom’ll kill me!”
He grabbed his coat with one hand, brushed his thick black hair back with the other, and dashed out the door. “Hate to leave you, toots, but I’m late already.” Speed was looking back over his shoulder and talking as he ran.
Chip watched Speed turn at the end of the hall and swing out the front door. Speed’s footwork always amazed him, but this afternoon it struck home hard. Speed had been the only player on the squad who gave him any competition when Coach Rockwell called for a race the length of the football field.
Speed would jump the gun and be in the lead for the first fifty yards; then Chip’s long strides would begin to tell, and he would slowly creep up and take the lead ten yards from the goal line—always close—seemed like he and Speed had always pushed each other. . . .
Sitting at the study desk Chip read the clipping slowly and reflectively. He had cut the article from the sports page of the Valley Falls Yellow Jacket. Gee whiz . . . he hadn’t even thanked Speed for bringing the paper over. . . .
Once more he looked at the clipping. By now he had almost memorized the contents:
FORMER VARSITY STAR APPOINTED BASKETBALL MANAGER
William “Chip” Hilton, a member of the junior class and a star center on last year’s basketball team, will serve as varsity basketball manager this year.
Hilton was injured several weeks ago in an automobile accident. He was co-captain of the football team and a great passer and kicker.
Hilton’s injury keeps him out of a basketball uniform, but the team will be fortunate in having an experienced basketball player as manager.
Chip is the son of the famous William “Big Chip” Hilton, All-American football and basketball player, who played at the Valley Falls High before going to State University. Mr. Hilton, formerly chief chemist at the Valley Falls Pottery, was killed in an accident there several years ago.
Frank Watts and Herbert Holden were named assistant basketball managers.
Chip laid the heavy scrapbook on the desk at his side and pasted in the clipping. Somehow it looked insignificant among all those empty black pages he had hoped to fill with his junior-year clippings. The fact that the first half of the book bulged with glowing accounts of his freshman and sophomore years served only to dishearten him. Headlines, and sometimes whole columns of type, told of his athletic feats and record-breaking accomplishments.
Turning the pages, he glanced at the headlines and relived every thrilling moment they recalled: “Valley Falls Wins, Chip Hilton Stars” . . . “Hilton and Morris Selected for East-West All-High Game” . . . “Morris and Hilton Chosen All-State” . . . “Hilton and Morris, Three-Letter Stars, Attend Spring Practice at State.”
Hilton had earned six letters at Valley Falls High before his junior year. “Guess that’s the end of that,” he murmured.
A familiar stride on the front porch brought him out of his reverie. The door opened and in the dim hall only Taps Browning’s shoulders were visible. Then with a duck of his head he was in the room. “Hiya, manager,” he beamed, waving a copy of the Yellow Jacket in the air. “See the paper?” Taps was exuberant. His blue eyes sparkled behind his silver-rimmed spectacles.
“Yes, I saw it. Speed brought it over.”
“Boy, that’s the best news that’s been in the paper this year! How you feelin’?”
“Okay—except for this manager stuff. Don’t know whether that’s good or not, Taps.” Suddenly his mood changed and with a grin he added, “Anyway, I guess I won’t have to pay my way into the games.”
Taps sensed Chip’s feelings and said quickly, “You sure won’t, Chip. The gang’s been pulling hard for you. The team needs someone like you. You’ll be a help to all of us—specially me!” Grasping Chip gently by the arms he added, “I’m glad you’re going to be manager, Chip. Maybe now I’ll be able to make the team. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around. Gosh, it doesn’t seem that it was only this fall that we met out there on the Hilton A. C. court, remember? You taught me more basketball—”
The tall youngster broke off suddenly to protect himself from a good-natured, though threatening, gesture from his friend.
“Cut the sob stuff, kid,” growled Chip.
“Well, see you in the morning, Chip—gotta stay home tonight. Mom said she wanted to see what I look like. Nights”
“Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.”
Chip stopped counting and paused for a rest . . . this was hard to take. He was breathing heavily and he was glad he had reached the landing. Come to think of it, this was the first time he had been up the gym steps since before the Steeltown football game. . . .
Boy, how about that! He had never even noticed counting steps before. Now, he bet he knew how many steps there were between every floor in Valley Falls High.
There was a certain something in the air today which Chip sensed instinctively. It was the approach of winter—and basketball. Yes, basketball was in the air! His pulse quickened.
He looked back down the long flight of steps. Funny, he had never realized before how many steps there were leading to the gym. Glancing at the huge gym door, he started upward again, counting as he climbed . . . twenty-five, -six, -seven, -eight, -nine . . . thirty. The big door required no small effort to open, and he was glad to find himself inside. He paused inside the big foyer, a bit out of breath; as he used to be after he’d dashed up these same steps, three at a time.
Arriving in front of Coach Rockwell’s office, Chip stopped for a few seconds to collect his wits before knocking. He knew a lot about this office. Every inch of space on the walls was covered with pictures of teams and great players who had played for Coach Rockwell and Valley Falls down through the years. His dad’s picture was up there; maybe his would be up there, too, someday. Right now, though, he was more concerned with his appointment with Coach Rockwell. Well . . . might as well get it over with. . . .
A hearty “Come in!” greeted his knock, and he found himself face to face with Coach Rockwell. Chip stood there tongue-tied. In the hospital and even at the championship football game, when Coach Rockwell had asked him to sit up in the stands and help figure out the weakness in Steeltown’s defense, he had tried unsuccessfully to work up enough nerve to unburden his feelings; to tell the Rock how sorry he was for breaking a team rule after the Delford game.
Chip
