over.
Then the keys would really talk! Ross was talented and could play any type of music well. Chip guessed he liked his mother’s playing best, though. It seemed more homelike . . . more natural. . . .
Chip was concentrating on an English theme which Mr. Wilkinson wanted at his next class. Naismith’s book on basketball had provided some good material for the composition, and Chip had jotted down a number of facts which he felt would be interesting.
Basketball was a natural. What else could he have put his heart into this evening? Nothing! Basketball was surging through his veins.
Chip made passing marks in English, but it was always a struggle. His thoughts wandered away from the composition, and he began to think of his future. If he had trouble with a little English paper, how could he ever be a sports writer?
Ross Montgomery was playing now and suddenly the gang burst into a rapid rendition of “Old MacDonald’s” tricky lyrics. This was a song they all knew, and the words rang out loud and clear:
“Old MacDonald had a farm, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH,
And on this farm he had some chicks, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH!
With a chick-chick here, a chick-chick there,
Here a chick, there a chick, everywhere a chick-chick,
Old MacDonald had a farm, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH!”
Chip laid aside his composition and listened intently. The melody was old and familiar, but he had some words of his own that were running through his mind in time with the music:
“Old Chip Hilton has a leg, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH,
And on this leg he has a brace, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH!
With a limp-limp here, a limp-limp there,
Here a limp, there a limp, everywhere a limp-limp,
Old Chip Hilton has a limp, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH!”
His thoughts turned suddenly to Doc Jones and he imagined the words “Old Patch-’Em-Up” would have substituted:
“Old Chip Hilton has a brace, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH,
But someday this brace will go, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH,
And when it goes, he’ll never know, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH!”
Can’t come too soon, he mused. Here . . . how about Wilkie’s composition? He again tried to concentrate on the paper, but it was no use. Despite every effort to study, his thoughts turned to the basketball team and the part he might play in its success. Greg Lewis had been manager for the last two years and had gone on the trips, kept score, and handed out the equipment. There didn’t seem to be any way to be outstanding in that kind of job. . . .
Speed’s raucous shout broke his reverie. “Hey, bookworm, come on down. What ya doing? Tomorrow’s Saturday, and you can study all day.”
“Wonder what kind of job he thinks I’ve got,” Chip muttered. “Okay,” he called. “Be right down.” He might as well go down with the gang—he couldn’t concentrate With all that noise anyway.
The big living room was crowded. Every chair, sofa, and even the floor, was occupied. Everyone greeted Chip as he entered with, “Hiya, kid!” “Hello, manager.”
Ross Montgomery was sitting at his usual place on the piano bench. “What’d Coach say?” he asked.
“Oh, he gave me a real going-over. Talked mostly about my job and then went into the career act.”
“He would!” Ted Williams laughed. Ted was president of the senior class. He was so shy and quiet that it was hard to realize that he was a star football player.
“The slave driver!” grunted Red Schwartz.
Chip agreed mentally. Coach Rockwell was a slave driver when it came to coaching, but the players all seemed to like it! He sure had . . . even that time last fall when the Rock had bawled him out. . . .
“See Rogers?” queried Red.
“No.”
“Rogers is the only man alive who can get Rock’s goat,” said Speed.
Burrell Rogers was faculty manager of athletics. However, he seldom concerned himself with coaching, but confined his activities to administrative work.
“Who’s really the boss—Rock or Rogers?” Biggie asked.
“Huh!” snorted Speed. “Nobody bosses Rock except the Board of Education. Most of them are scared of him. Rock is an institution.”
“I don’t think he’s very optimistic about this year’s material,” Chip said.
“Look,” said Speed. “Rock always uses that line. We won’t have many out for the team this year, but what of it?”
“Hampton’ll have more out for their team than we have in the whole senior class,” laughed Red.
“Well, Coach doesn’t do so bad with what he gets,” broke in Biggie. “He’s won more championships than all the rest of the coaches in the state put together, I guess.”
“He said the schedule was the toughest in the history of the school,” said Chip.
“That’s him, all right,” said Red. “Always worrying. Rock waves the biggest crying-towel in the state!”
“He’s a great moaner,” agreed Ross, securing himself more firmly on the piano bench, “but I can’t see any need to cry about this year’s basketball prospects. Gosh, there’s Red, Speed here, Buzz Todd, Soapy Smith, and Taps—what more does he want?”
“It’s sure surprising the interest some people we know show in sports,” observed Chip, “even though they profess to doubt their value.”
Ross stood up and shook his head ruefully. “I’d better go. I’m in a den of athletes!”
“I’ve got to go, too,” said Speed. “Don’t worry, gang, we’ll have a good team. We’ve got the best coach in the state, and the first all-state manager in the history of basketball.”
“Huh!” growled Chip, clumping up the stairs to get his coat before leaving for the Sugar Bowl.
Chip paused outside the open door of Coach Rockwell’s office. The Rock, Burrell Rogers, and Assistant Coach Chet Stewart were seated at the big table. Waiting uncertainly, Chip was relieved when Coach Rockwell looked up and greeted him with a smile. “Come in, Chip.”
Chip entered and laid the black book Rockwell had loaned him on the desk. “Here’s the book, Coach. Thanks a lot. It was swell.”
“Good! I’m glad you liked it.”
Chip had never had much contact with Burrell Rogers, but Chet Stewart had been his backfield coach in football and had worked with Coach Rockwell in teaching him basketball for the past two years. Chip knew him well and liked him. He
