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 Red.
“Okay! Okay!” laughed Speed. “I’ll give.” The boys listened attentively. “Greg was keeping score, as you know,” he continued, “and it was a tough game. Delford’s high scorer was a guy by the name of Bartlett and he was ‘hot.’ Nobody could hold him. Coach knew Bartlett was weak on the defense and told Chip to keep cutting and to go under the basket and to use two-hand sweep shots to draw fouls.”
“That isn’t really fair, is it?” Taps was perplexed.
“Nothing wrong with it,” said Speed. “Look!” He imitated the underhand sweep shot. “It’s a shot that’s hard to guard and if it isn’t stopped it’s an easy two points.
“Chip murdered him. Five minutes after the second half started, Bartlett had four personal fouls.”
“Wonder why Coach Jenkins let Bartlett guard Chip?” asked Buzz. “Chip’s the best pivot player in the state.”
Chip laughed. “Thanks for the roses, pal.”
“Well, they did switch him to Tim Murphy,” continued Speed, “and then it was really bad. Right off the bat Timmy cut under the basket and scored. Bartlett left him alone a couple more times, and Timmy scored both times. Then he fouled him again, and that was curtains; he was out of the game.”
“Greg blew the scorekeeper’s horn, jumped to his feet, and held up five fingers.” Chip was excited by the memory.
Speed
