“Why not?” Chick Grover eyed his friend Butch Slade as if he were surprised Butch could even think of such a question. “Maybe Mort’s forgotten.”
“Mort never forgets,” replied Butch, turning to look through the large plate glass window of Mort’s Pit Stop. “ He’s like an elephant.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Chick. “In more ways than one. Anyway, I’ll try. Maybe he won’t see me in that crowd.”
He saw the usual Saturday afternoon slot car fans huddled in front of the track. Racers were zooming down the straightaways, blast ing around the S-curve and sweeper at speeds so fast his eyes swam trying to keep up with them.
Chick recognized Jack Harmon. It was Jack’s fault that Chick had been booted out of Mort’s Pit Stop last Friday evening during the Semi-Main event. Chick’s Lotus Formula 1 was on its twenty-seventh lap, two behind Jack’s Lola T-70, when Jack met his bomb on the S-curve and nerfed the Lotus clear off the track. It had landed on the floor with a crash that destroyed the motor and part of the chassis, and chipped a piece off the hand-some, sleek, ocean-green body.
Chick knew as sure as anything that Jack Harmon had done it on purpose, even though Jack said he hadn’t. He had lit into Jack with fists flying, knocking him against a corner of the slot car race track hard enough to jar the track and deslot half of the cars racing.
So what did that elephant-sized Mort Yates do? Blamed the whole shebang on Chick, that’s what. Told him to get out and stay out. If that wasn’t the unfairest deal a guy could pull, Chick didn’t know what was.
“Well, you coming or aren’t you?”
Chick saw that Butch had already opened the door. “I told you I was, didn’t I?”
He realized his grumpiness and apologized. “Sorry, Butch.”
He used to think that he got some satisfaction from being grumpy, that it gave him a feeling of being better than the next guy. Then there were times when grumpiness made him feel lousy. Just as lousy as one can get. And that was when he became ashamed of himself.
“I’ll hide in the crowd while you get your controller,” Chick suggested.
Butch headed for the counter where Mort Yates was adjusting a motor on a slot car for a kid.
Six of the eight lanes were taken. The two not taken were on the outside. The two unoccupied drivers’ seats were at the far right. Chick pressed up behind the last one and settled down to watch the race.
Jack Harmon’s blue Lola T-70 carried a yellow dot and was on Lane 7, the yellow lane, second from the inside. It was a classy bomb. Jack had won more ribbons and trophies with it than any other slot car driver in Chesterton.
Chick was secretly jealous of Jack because of it. He sometimes thought that he disliked Jack because he was better than anyone else in almost everything he did. And Jack picked on him a lot, too.
Ken Jason was there, using his own pistol-grip controller. His car was a Ford GTP, a two-toned, black and yellow model that had twice won the Concours d’Elégance, an event for the best-looking car model. It was racing on the blue Number 4 lane.
Ken and Jack, sitting side by side, had their eyes glued to their cars. Turn marshals were stationed at the four sharp curves.
Butch Slade shouldered through the crowd, sat beside Ken, and plugged in his controller. A green dot was on the hood of his black Porsche. He opened his oil of wintergreen pad, ran the rear wheels back and forth across it to goop up the tires, then placed the car on the green Number 2 lane.
Ken shot a quick glance at Butch. “Hi, Butch.”
“Hi, Ken.”
Jack Harmon looked over at Butch and spoke, too. Then he looked at Chick and surprise replaced the calm expression on his face.
“Chick!” You could’ve heard him in the next county. “Thought you weren’t supposed to come in here anymore.”
“Why don’t you fall into a volcano?” snapped Chick sourly.
The Lola was on the upper level of the track. Jack whizzed it around the sweeper, the steep, wide bank at the right side of the track, stopped it in front of himself, picked it up, fiddled with the brushes a second, then rose from his chair and headed for the counter. Oh-oh, thought Chick. That sneak. Pretending somethings wrong with his car when all he wants to do is squeal on me. And what am I doing? Nothing but watching.
Seconds later Jack returned and continued racing his Lola. Mort didn’t come. Maybe Jack hadn’t squealed, after all. Maybe he was as honest as he always pretended to be.
Then a hand rested on Chick’s shoulder. A strong, heavy hand. Chick looked around and there stood Mort Yates, all six-foot-one of him, staring down as if he had caught Chick robbing the First National Bank.
“Out, Chick.”
“Why? What did I do? I haven’t done anything.”
“I want to make sure you don’t,” said Mort curtly. “Come on.”
The people opened up a hole and Chick ambled through, ashamed and hurt. Mort opened the door and Chick walked out, hands stuck stiffly into his pockets.
I haven’t done a thing! he thought bitterly. Not a thing!
“Hey, Chick!” yelled Butch Slade. “Wait for me! I’ll be out as soon as I finish!”
Chick trembled and got as close to crying as he had in a long time. He suddenly felt empty and alone.
Louse! That’s what Mort Yates was. A big, dumb louse who just loved to show how tough he was.
After a while Jack Harmon and Ken Jason came out of the building, carrying metal boxes which held their slot cars and accessories.
“You squealer!” snarled Chick. “You snitched on me!”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I did not snitch,” he said.
“Liar!” Chick sailed into him, fists doubled up. Just as he was about to land a blow Jack lifted his metal box. It stopped Chick’s blow and sent a sharp pain up his arm that jarred him all the way down to his heels.
“I told you I didn’t snitch on you!” shouted Jack angrily. “You’re making it up!”
“Coward!” yelled Chick, rubbing his aching bruised fist.
“Hey, you kids! Stop that fighting!” a loud, authoritative voice rang out from up the street.
Heavy feet pounded on the sidewalk and a moment later Police Officer Tom Duffy was beside them. “All right now, Chick. Just control yourself and tell me what it’s all about.”
Chick. It was always Chick.
Chick explained to Officer Duffy what it was all about. Jack didn’t speak up until Chick had finished his explanation.
“That isn’t so, Mr. Duffy. I didn’t nerf his car on purpose. Ken can tell you that, too.”
“Keep me out of it,” said Ken.
“Okay, okay,” said Tom Duffy. “You two guys go on your way. I want to talk with Chick alone.”
Jack and Ken left and Tom Duffy looked at Chick. “Chick, whether you’re right or not -”
“Look, I’ve known Jack since he was a little boy, Chick. I’ve never known him to tell a lie that would get a person in trouble.”
“But this time was diff—”
“Now, just a minute. Let me finish. Just suppose Jack did do on purpose what you said he’s done. Did you have to fly into him after what happened to you last Friday night? You’re just piling up demerits till you’ll have a reputation that’ll stretch from here to San Francisco. And you won’t have to wonder what friends you’ll have either. You won’t have any. You’ll be as lonesome as a polecat.” Tom Duffy paused and smiled. “And that’s really lonesome. You want to be like that?”
Chick tried to keep from smiling back, but he couldn’t. “No, I guess not, Mr. Duffy,” he said quietly.
“Well, then?”
Chick shrugged. “I’ll try not to pop off the next time.”
Tom Duffy laughed and ruffled Chick’s hair. “That a boy, Chick. By the way, how are your daddy and mom?”
“Oh, fine, I guess.”
The door of Mort’s Pit Stop opened and Butch Slade came out. “Hi, Mr. Duffy,” he greeted.
“Hi, Butch. How’d you do?”
“Came in third in a Wildcat race. Of course, there were only four of us racing.”
Tom Duffy chuckled, said goodbye with a salute and a final remember-what-I-said look at Chick, and walked away.
“What did he have to say?” asked Butch.
“Plenty,” replied Chick.
They walked along silently for a while, Chick trying to scratch Tom Duffy’s words out of his mind but with no success. No matter what Tom Duffy or anybody said, Jack Harmon was to blame for all the trouble he’d been getting into. And fistfighting with Jack wasn’t settling matters one bit. It just made them worse.
There was only one place their feud could be settled, and that was on a slot car racing track.
But how could he race without a car?
“I’d like to build a car, but where could I race it, Butch? Think Ken will let me race it on his track?”
“Ask him,” said Butch.
They walked to Ken’s house and Chick knocked on the door. “Ken here, Mrs. Jason?” he asked as Ken’s mother opened the door.
“Hello, Chick. Yes, just a second. Ken! Someone to see you!”
In a moment Ken appeared.
“Hi, guys.”
“Hi. Ken, if I build a scratch kit racer would you let me run it on your track? Mort won’t let me set foot in his place any more.”
“I don’t know,” said Ken. “I’ll have to ask my father.”
Chick stared at him. “What?”
“Well, it belongs to both of us.”
“Oh—well, forget it, Ken. Maybe I can’t buy a scratch kit, anyway.”
“If you do, then come back, Chick. I’m sure my dad won’t mind. Really.”
“Okay. Thanks, Ken. See ya.”
A father owning a model car racing track with his son was all right, Chick supposed. But did the son have to ask him if it were all right for some other kid to race a car on it?
Well—if you invited a kid who didn’t care. A kid who messed around and popped off at other people. In that case, yes. You had to go along with his father then.
That evening, after supper, Chick mustered all the nerve he could and asked his father for six dollars and forty-nine cents, the cost of a cheap slot car kit at Mort’s Pit Stop(providing Mort would let him buy it—and why shouldn’t he?).
Dad’s answer was no surprise.
“Can’t right now, Chick. It’s the end of the month. Bill paying time.”
Just what Chick had thought. It was the same every time, whether it was at the end of the month, the middle, or the beginning. He just had no chance.
He picked up Whitey, the fluffy white cat, put him on his lap and stroked him. One thing about cats: they never had problems.
At school Monday, Chick Grover got the surprise of his life. He had told Butch his dad wasn’t able to give him any money to purchase a slot car kit, and the word got around to Jack Harmon.
“I have a car you can buy for two-fifty,” offered Jack. “I’ve had it for a long time, but it’s a good one. It’s worth all of that price.”
“I haven’t got two-fifty. I haven’t got a dime.”
“You can pay me when you get it,” said Jack.
Chick stared at him. “What kind of car is it?”
“A Ferrari. The paint’s chipped off some and she’s banged up a little, but that won’t stop her from running. It’s old, so you have to be careful with it, that’s all.”
“I’ll take it,” said Chick, “when I get the money.”
Chick had a speed test in math and flunked it. Math bugged him. Mom and Dad used to help him with it, but neither one could make heads or tails out of it now. Mr. Cullen, the math teacher, said it was easy as falling off a log and Chick would realize that if he’d concentrate instead of spending most of his time drawing pictures of racing cars.
After school Chick asked the neighbors if he could cut their lawns, pick their weeds, carry out their garbage, anything. But no one had a thing for him to do. Their husbands or sons did those jobs.
Dad was his only answer. That night Chick talked to him again. “Dad, I could buy a slot car for two-fifty. Jack Harmon will sell it to me. I’ve looked all over for a job to raise the money but I can’t find one. I’ll do anything you want me to, Dad, honest, if you’ll—”
“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Dad, and looked at his wife. “Mary, did you hear what I heard, or are my ears deceiving me?”
“They’re not deceiving you,” she said. “I heard every word.”
He turned back to Chick. “Okay, son. I’ll let you have two-fifty on condition you get down to brass tacks on your math and bring home a better-looking report card. I know you can do better. You’re not a dumbbell. Especially in math. Who did you say you’re buying the car from?”
“Jack Harmon.”
“Isn’t he the kid you’re always scrapping with?”
Chick shrugged. “Yes. But if I don’t buy the car from him I won’t have one. I—I guess you don’t really understand how much I miss having one. Only a kid would understand that.”
His father took two one-dollar bills and a fifty-cent piece out of his wallet, placed it in front of Chick, then took Chick’s hand.
“I was a young boy, too, son. I remember once I wanted something very bad. A bike. A two-wheeler. A crummy-looking two-wheeler that needed a paint job, a new tire, and repair work on the chain. The kid was asking five dollars for it. I didn’t have that kind of money. My father was dead. My mother was the only one working, trying to raise five kids. That was why I ... I—“ He cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. “Anyway, I didn’t get the five dollars. I didn’t get the bike. I never had a bike in my life, Chick.”
The next day Chick gave Jack Harmon the two-fifty for the old, beat-up Farrari, then asked Ken Jason again if he could race on his track.
“Sure, you can, Chick.”
“Aren’t you going to ask your father?”
“I asked him the first time you asked me.” Ken laughed. “He said it was okay.”
“Oh.” Chick smiled. “Okay. I’ll come over.”
Butch Slade was there when Chick arrived at Ken’s after supper on Wednesday. The track was in the basement. It was the sharpest home track Chick had ever seen. It was triple-laned and laid out on a four by eight-foot ply-board. There were two long straightaways, overhead ramps, a sharp S-curve at one end and a U-curve at the other.
There were also trees, a grandstand and a pit stop where three ½4-inch scale model cars were being “handled” by track “mechanics.” For a long time Chick just stood, thrilled by the sight that looked so real. I’d give anything for a track like this, he thought. Anything.
But he knew he’d never have a track like this. Never. Not while he was still a kid.
“Go ahead,” said Ken. “Try out your new bomb.”
“New bomb?” Chick laughed. “It’s older’n a monkey’s uncle.”
He placed the Ferrari on the track, picked up the controller, and Ken turned on the power. The controller was the kind you pushed down with your thumb. The farther down you pushed it, the more power went to the motor, and faster went the car.
Chick thumbed the controller. The Ferrari jerked ahead, roared up the far left ramp and spun out on the sharp curve.
Butch put the flag back into the slot, straightened the car and Chick thumbed the controller again. The car crawled around the S-curve and Chick full-throttled it down the opposite straightaway. Too late he realized the car was speeding too fast. It left the track, spun over the white fence and crashed to the hard, cement floor.
“Track!” yelled Butch, laughing.
Chick stared at the Ferrari. It was a shambles. Its front axle, with wheels intact, had come off the frame and was rolling toward the far wall. The flag was broken off.
But the worst sight of all was the motor. It was hanging outside of the overturned car, its two wires, a green and a red, still clinging to the broken flag.
“That lousy Jack Harmon!” cried Chick, choking back tears. “He lied to me! He lied to me again!”
Chick Grover lit into Jack Harmon the following day in the corridor of the school.
“You sold me a lemon!” he shouted, his voice carrying through the full length of the corridor. “A lousy piece of junk!”
Jack stuck by his guns. “I told you that the car was old and you had to be careful with it.” he said. “It’s not my fault your head’s as fat as a balloon.”
Chick’s ears turned as red as a stoplight. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to build a car and beat the pants off you! I’m going to beat you so bad you’ll wish you took up tiddlywinks, Mr. Jack Wise-Guy Harmon!”
“Well, well, well! What’s this all about?” a dry, husky voice broke in.
Mr. Webber, the principal, was coming up the hall, his heels clicking on the tiled floor. He was only four inches taller than Chick, but he had the shoulders, chest and neck of the college football guard he had been once upon a time.
“What’s this about beating someone’s pants off?” he said, stepping between Chick and Jack and looking from one boy to the other.
“Nothing,” said Chick, and started to walk away.
Mr. Webber grabbed his arm. “I’ve asked a question, Chick. What’s this about beating someone’s pants off?”
“I sold him a slot car and it got damaged when he raced it last night,” explained Jack. “He blames me for it.”
“Who wouldn’t?” snapped Chick. “It was a piece of junk.”
“You still didn’t answer my question,” snapped Mr. Webber.
“I told him I’m going to build a car and beat his pants off,” said Chick, noticing that a crowd had gathered around them.
“You could’ve made that suggestion somewhere else, not in this school hall,” replied the principal sharply. “Now go to your classes and don’t ever use this corridor, or any place else in this school, for your silly arguments again.”
That evening, after Chick did his homework, he examined the damaged Ferrari. The best thing to do, he decided, was to buy a new chassis kit and build the Ferrari from scratch. There was nothing wrong with the body. It only needed a paint job.
But where would he get the money to purchase a new kit? He wouldn’t dare ask Dad for another cent. Not after what had happened. And a kit would cost from five dollars up. He might as well forget the whole thing.
He went and sat in the living room, his legs sprawled out and his fingers interlaced across his chest. There wasn’t a thing he felt like doing. He didn’t feel like reading. He didn’t feel like playing football. He almost wished that he had more homework to do, but that was going too far.
After a minute he realized that he didn’t feel like doing anything except model car racing.
Dad came in and lightly kicked one of his sprawled legs. “Hey, what’s with you? Your face is as long as these legs of yours.”
Chick shrugged.
“Is it a secret?” his father asked. He crossed the room and sat on the davenport.
“My car’s busted.”
“The one you’d just bought from Jack Harmon?”
Chick nodded.
“Can it be fixed?”
Chick shrugged.
“Well, can it or can’t it?”
Chick pulled himself up in the chair and crossed his left leg over his right. “I suppose it can. But it’ll take an awful lot of work. Soldering and stuff.”
“Let’s see the car, Chick.”
“You mean what’s left of it,” said Chick gloomily. He got the car and held it out to his father. What was Dad thinking? That he might put old Humpty Dumpty together again?
Dad placed the front axle on the brass strips where old marks showed it had once been soldered. “We can file this old solder off and resolder the axle,” he suggested. “Know how the motor fits into the chassis?”
Chick fitted it in the center of the drop arm. “It goes there,” he said. “The metal clip holds it in place. Just have to mesh the gears. But the guide’s shot, Dad. I’ve got to have a new one.”
“Does Mort Yates sell ‘em?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. A tiny piece like a guide can’t cost too much.” Dad took a coin out of his pocket. “Here. Go buy one and we’ll put this baby together again.”
Chick’s eyes brightened like headlights. “You—you mean you’re going to help me, Dad?” he asked hopefully.
“Well, I’ll do what you can’t do yourself. Okay?”
“Why, sure!” Chick swung his arms around Dad’s neck, gave him a squeeze that half-choked him, then scrambled to the front door.
“Meowrrrrr!” shrieked Whitey as Chick stepped on the tip of his long white tail.
“Out of my way, Whitey!” Chick shouted as he yanked the door open and flew across the porch and down the steps.
Dad’s going to help me! he thought. He can do the soldering, I’ll do the rest. And I’ll paint the body, put new decals on it, and put a driver inside and a dashboard and I’ll enter it in a Concours d’Elégance!
He had plenty of paint and decals. And he had a model car driver that had been collecting dust in a drawer for months, just waiting for an opportunity to climb into a cockpit and drive a car. Oh, man! It had turned out to be a pretty good day after all!
“Mort—I mean, Mr. Yates—are you going to hold a Concours Saturday?”
Mort nodded. “Saturday afternoon. Then a few Crash-and Burn races. Why? Got a car you’d like to enter?”
Chick smiled and nodded. He still felt nervous talking with the man who only a few days ago had thrown him out of the place. “Well, I’m fixing up a Ferrari. If I get it finished in time, I’d like to. That is, if ... if I could.”
Mort leaned on the counter, his face hardly six inches away from Chick’s. “Okay, Chick. You could. But no fights. Promise?”
Chick laughed. He took back every bad thing he had thought of Mort. “I promise,” he said.
“Okay. See you Saturday. Get here early enough to register.”
Chick paid for the nylon slot guide. He started to leave when who should pop into the place but Jack Harmon.
“Well, look who’s here,” said Jack. “What’s up, Chick?”
Chick almost said “None of your business,” but caught himself. “I’m fixing up that Ferrari I bought from you,” he replied quietly.
“Can I help you? I’d really like to. I mean it.”
Chick stared at him. He glanced at Mort, saw him smile. His stomach churned. The last guy in the world he’d want help from was Jack Harmon. Man, what a spot to be in!
He thought about it a second longer, then said, “Okay. I’m going to work on it right now, though.” He hoped maybe that would discourage Jack.
It didn’t. “Good!” Jack answered.
He looked again at Mort, and Mort winked. “Better help him good, Jack!” he called, as the boys went out the door. “Chick wants to enter the Concours and the race Saturday!”
Jack looked at Chick in surprise. “You do?”
“Yep, I do,” answered Chick, and broke into a fast run. He left Jack behind for a couple of seconds before Jack caught up.
Dad and Mom seemed unable to believe their eyes at sight of Jack. He greeted them in that polite way of his, then followed Chick and Mr. Grover downstairs to the basement.
Chick cleaned off the old solder from the metal frame and front axle with steel wool, then fitted the chassis and axle on the chassis jig. Dad had bought the jig for him when he had made his first model car almost two years ago.
Dad plugged in the soldering iron to heat it. He unrolled about six inches of solder from a big roll and dipped the end of it into a can of soldering flux. With a brush he dabbed the areas of the front axle and the curved-up end of the flat metal frame, then held the iron, when it was hot, against the metal frame close to where the two pieces were to join together.
Suddenly the solder melted, flowing between the joints. Dad took the iron away and the solder hardened to a smooth finish almost instantly.
“Gee, Dad! That doesn’t look so hard,” exclaimed Chick.
“It isn’t,” agreed Dad. “Just don’t put on too much flux, and make sure your iron’s good and hot. And keep your fingers away from the hot tip!”
Chick laughed. “Makes sense!” he said.
“Want to solder the axle to the other side?” asked Dad.
“Sure!”
Chick dipped the end of the solder into the flux. Using the brush, he dabbed a little flux near the end of the metal frame that curved up on the left side and on the front axle where the two pieces were to join. He took the soldering iron carefully by its handle and held its tip against the curve of the flat metal strip. He felt jittery.
Suddenly the solder melted and flowed quickly between the joints.
“Okay,” said Dad. “Take the iron away.”
Chick did. The solder hardened to a neat, smooth finish. Almost as neat as Dad’s!
“Hey! Nice work, son,” said Dad. “You handle that iron pretty well.”
Chick lifted the drop arm and let it drop freely at its pivotal points. It was free as could be. The arm had to work freely so that the pickup brush and the slot flag at its end would keep contact with the track. For good measure, he tightened the small screws on both sides of the chassis mounts a bit more. The pivoting cross bar of the drop arm was fastened to the mounts and these were the only screws that held the drop arm to the chassis.
He noticed something. The axle was sticking out more than a sixteenth of an inch from the left front wheel and was only a thread or two into the right front wheel. Wow! That had to be fixed for sure.
With a wrench he loosened the nut between the right wheel and the nylon bushing, unscrewed the wheel, then did the same thing to the other wheel. He then turned both nuts till they were almost exactly the same distance from the ends of the axle, screwed the wheels back on, tightened the nuts against them and checked the result. He grinned with satisfaction.
“That’s a lot better,” said Jack over his shoulder. “Funny I hadn’t seen it when I had it.”
Chick examined the rear wheels. They fitted on the axle well enough. He placed the slot guide on the V-shaped end of the drop arm and tightened a set screw with a tiny alien wrench to hold it. He checked to see if the guide pivoted freely. It did.
He set the motor carefully in place inside the drop arm, fitting the bushing of the front end into the hole in the motor mount that was soldered to a cross bar, and the rear bushing of the motor onto the mount that was cut out in the exact shape to hold it. He pushed the motor down gently, careful to mesh the pinion gear of the motor and the crown gear on the rear axle without stripping the teeth. Then he placed the metal clip over the motor and forced its ends underneath the brass tubing on both sides to secure it.
He turned the rear wheels a little. The gears felt tight. With his alien wrench he loosened the set screw on the crown gear, pulled the gear back slightly, and retightened the screw. He turned the wheels again. The gears meshed smoothly.
He pushed the free end of a green wire, the other end of which was soldered to the lower left-hand post of the motor, through the left-hand hole in the guide and forced a copper pickup brush into a slot at the end of the guide. He stuck the free end of the red wire, the other end of which was soldered to the upper right-hand post of the motor, through a right-hand hole in the guide and forced a second pickup brush into the slot next to the first one. The two brushes held the wires tightly in place.
“Let’s see that,” said Jack. He took the chassis and brushed out the copper strands smoothly with a small bristle brush. “The brushes will make better contact this way.”
He pushed them flat against the bottom of the slot guide unit with the guide sticking down between them.
“Thanks,” said Chick. Heck, he knew that. Jack didn’t have to tell him. But, then, you can’t be sore at a guy for wanting to be helpful.
Chick cleaned the front and rear tires thoroughly by placing drops of model car tire cleaning fluid on a cloth and rubbing it over the tires lightly with his forefinger.
“What’re you going to do with the body?” asked Jack, curiously.
Chick picked it up. It was plastic and looked pretty crummy. “I’ll get some lighter fluid from Dad, take off the old paint and give it a new paint job. Then I’m going to glue in a seat and a driver.”
“Man, you think you can do all that?”
“I’m going to try,” said Chick with confidence. “Dad, do you have some lighter fluid?”
“It’s upstairs in the cupboard,” replied Dad.
Chick ran up the stairs two at a time. Jack followed him. “See you tomorrow, Chick,” he said. “I’ve got to leave.”
“Okay. Thanks for helpin’!”
Chick found the fluid, took it to the basement and soaked up a little of it with a piece of cloth. He rubbed the paint on the inside of the body till it was all off, leaving only the clear plastic.
He painted the body with bright red paint, being careful not to get any on the windshield, the side windows or the rear window.
On Friday, after supper, he painted the headlights a bright yellow as well as a ring around the red tail lights. He painted the seams around the doors, the hood, the windows, the rear fenders, the front grille and the parking lights with black India ink. Then across the seams he rubbed a cloth dampened with lighter fluid, leaving a black pin stripe over all the places he had painted.
“It’s shaping up beautifully,” observed Dad, smiling. “When’s the Concours?”
“Are you going to race it?”
“Sure! But I won’t depend much on it. There might be bugs in it and I won’t have time to get ‘em all out. I’m going to put in my driver and paste on the decals tonight, then try it out on Ken Jason’s track tomorrow morning. If there’s anything wrong with it I’ll fix it then.”
“Good!” Dad ruffled his hair. “Go to it, son. And good luck.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I was surprised to see Jack Harmon here last night. Seems like a nice kid.”
Chuck shrugged. “Guess he can be if he wants to.”
Dad chuckled. “Guess anybody can be if he wants to. Huh, son?”
Chick smiled, and nodded. He knew what Dad meant, all right.
“I don’t think you’ll need any help from now on,” said Dad. “If you do, let me know.”
After Dad went upstairs Chick pasted the license decal on the rear first, then the figure six on the hood and doors. Halfway between the doors and the rear fenders he pasted the decals of a white cat, then glued on the dashboard.
He painted the goggles of the driver silver, the jacket light blue, the helmet and gloves black, and left the face its natural flesh color. He painted a bottle cap brown and glued it to the driver’s hands when the paint had dried. It passed perfectly for a steering wheel.
He glued the driver to a piece of thin card-board, then adjusted the cardboard inside the car’s body. He secured the cardboard with Scotch tape, then installed strips of fiber glass tape along the bottom of the body shell, inside, for reinforcement, and stuck a pin through the holes. Then he held the car’s body away from himself and looked at it, turning it this way and that. Man, it was a dream.
“All I’ve got to do now is screw the body to the chassis and I’m finished!” he exclaimed proudly.
He waited for the decals to dry. Then he set the chassis inside the body, lined up the mounting holes, inserted the screws and tightened them.
The car was finished!
He rushed up the stairs two at a time, the model car held as if it were an egg.
“Look, Dad! Mom! I’ve finished my car!”
They were in the living room. Mom looked up from her book and Dad from his magazine.
They looked wide-eyed with pride before any of them said a word.
Early Saturday morning Chick called up Ken Jason and asked if he could test his “new” Ferrari on Ken’s home track.
“Sure,” said Ken. “Bring it over.”
On the way to Ken’s he met Butch Slade and a couple of other guys.
“Hey! Whose bomb you got?” Butch asked, reaching for Chick’s car.
Chick yanked it back. “Mine. Whose you think?”
“Bought it from Mort?”
“No, I didn’t buy it from Mort. I repaired the chassis after it busted, then custom-built the body.”
Butch laughed. The others joined in, only louder. “I hope you’re not going to enter it in the Concours d’Elégance, or the race this afternoon, Chickie, old boy. That bomb will fizzle.”
Something like a toothache hit Chick’s stomach. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad you have so much confidence in me, old pal.”
He walked away, the guys’ laughter roaring in his ears.
Ken liked the Ferrari. “It looks great, Chick! I bet Jack would never recognize it as the one he sold you.”
“Know something?” said Chick, smiling. “He helped me customize it!”
Ken’s eyes popped. “Well, I’m not too surprised. He’s not a bad guy.”
Chick shrugged. Guess everybody thinks he’s a good guy but me. But I don’t care. I said I’m going to beat the pants off him one of these days and I will.
Chick placed the Ferrari on the track first—the inside lane—to see how it would run. He placed the flag squarely in the slot, saw that the copper brushes were touching the metal strips properly on each side, then asked Ken to turn on the switch. Chick picked up the controller for the inside lane, pushed the plunger down gently, and the car crawled forward.
A proud smile came over Chick’s face. He pushed the plunger father down. The Ferrari picked up speed, slowed at the S-curve, then bolted down the straightaway. It seemed to shimmy a little and sounded noisy.
“Oh, no!” said Chick, the smile fading. “Something’s wrong. Maybe it wasn’t soldered well enough!”
He stopped the car in front of him, picked it off the track and examined its underside. The soldered joints were solid. He checked the gears.
“No wonder!” he said. “There’s too much play!” But hadn’t he adjusted the gears only last night?
Then he saw the trouble. There was at least a thirty-second of play between the bushing and the nut of the right rear wheel!
“I think I’ve found it, Ken,” Chick said hopefully. “Got a wrench?”
“Sure do.” Ken got it and handed it to him. Chick loosened the nut between the bushing and the wheel, unscrewed the wheel slightly, then screwed the nut tighter up against the loose bushing. He screwed the wheel back up to the nut, retightened the nut, and checked the gear mesh again.
“Not bad!” he exclaimed with satisfaction. “Let’s see how she runs now!”
He placed the Ferrari on the track, the flag in the slot, and picked up the controller.
Ken flicked on the switch. Chick pushed the plunger down gently, letting the Ferrari take off slowly. Gradually he gave it more power by pressing down farther on the plunger. The car swung around the S-curve, sped down the straightaway, shot around the U and then screamed down the stretch in front of him. He sent it around the track twice. The shimmy was gone. The grating noise was gone.
“I think I’ve got me a real bomb, Ken,” he said, a wide smile on his face. “Let’s race.”
They conducted a five-minute Wildcat race, using a mechanical timer.
Ken’s Ford GTP was ahead at the end of the first lap. Chick, anxious to catch up, gave the Ferrari full throttle on the long stretch, pushing the plunger down as far as it would go. Thumbing off just before it reached the U-curve, he gunned it, thumbed off and gunned it again as it came around the bend. Too fast. The Ferrari spun out and sat still, its flag out of the slot.
He straightened the car, slotted the flag, and full-throttled the Ferrari down the long stretch toward the S-curve. As it sped in front of him it clicked the score marker to 2. The marker on the opposite side read 3. A second later it read 4 as the Ford finished another lap.
On Chick’s sixth lap he thumbed off too late at the S-curve, and the Ferrari sailed over the fence and crashed to the floor.
“Track!” he yelled, filled with horror.
He picked up the car, examined it carefully, and grinned with relief. “It’s okay!” he shouted.
At the sound of the bell the race stopped and the boys checked their scores. Ken’s Ford GTP had finished with fifty-five laps, Chick’s with forty-six.
“Man, I’m lousy,” said Chick. “You’d think I’d never raced before.”
“Well, it’s the first time you’ve raced that bomb,” said Ken. “What do you expect?”
“Better than that score, that’s what,” re-replied Chick determinedly.
At one o’clock Chick and Ken registered their cars at Mort’s Pit Stop and paid their entrance fees. Mort Yates himself inspected the cars for length, weight and other technical specifications. Then Eddie Lane, Mort’s assistant, placed the cars on the long shelf among the other beautiful cars already there. By one-thirty, judging time for the Concours d’Elégance, there were eleven cars entered in the contest, including Jack Harmon’s yellow Lola T-70, Butch’s black Porsche and Ken’s two-toned black and yellow Ford GTP.
Eddie Lane was the judge. He looked at each car and wrote down points on a scoring sheet. Awards were made by the number of points a car accumulated. The most points it could get were thirty.
There were lots of things a judge looked and gave points for. General appearance, for example. Cleanliness. Did the car have a driver? Was he painted and in detail? Was there a steering wheel? An instrument panel? Exhaust pipes?
Exhaust pipes? Chick’s heart fluttered. His red Ferrari didn’t have them. Few of the cars did. Would not having them ruin his chances?
At last it was over. Eddie Lane checked the score sheet. Then he climbed up to the platform and spoke into the microphone.
“Attention, everybody! The cars have been judged in the Concours d’Elégance and the top three winners chosen. These were judged on their general appearance, craftsmanship, and special ingenuity in making and installing the different accessories.”
He cleared his throat. “Third prize—a blue ribbon and a set of trackside figures—to Mike Kotmel!”
A roar resounded through the big room.
“Second prize—a red ribbon and a clear plastic Marauder body—to Duane Chris-man!”
Another roar resounded. Then silence.
“First prize—a white ribbon and a brass tube frame—to Chick Grover!”
“Yaaaaay!”
“Congratulations, Chick!”
Chick stood, almost paralyzed. He was looking at Eddie Lane and Eddie was looking at him and smiling. “Here you are, Chick,” he said, holding out the ribbon and the prize. “Come and get it.”
Chick broke out of the spell, stepped forward and accepted the ribbon and prize. “Th-thanks,” he said.
When he turned, Butch and Jack were waiting for him with outstretched hands. “Guess I don’t know what it takes to be a winner,” said Butch. “That’s why I never win a Concours.”
“You sure turned my old heap into a beauty, Chick,” said Jack. “I’m glad it won.”
“Thanks, guys,” said Chick proudly.
He entered the first two-minute Crash-and-Burn race with Ken, Butch, Jack and four other guys—including fellows much older. Since there were only eight lanes on the track, not all the entries were able to race at the same time. The winner would race the three remaining cars.
Chick gooped the Ferrari’s rear tires on Butch’s goop pad, set the car on the Number 4 blue lane which was assigned to him, then waited for the count from Eddie Lane, the race director. Jack’s Lola T-70 was on the red lane on his right and Butch’s black Porsche on his left. Somehow he wished Jack’s car were in another lane.
The race drivers started with their thumbs down on the controllers. At the count of “Three!” the race director turned on the switch and the race was on.
Chick kept the Ferrari at full throttle down the long straightaway and was careful as could be at the curves and bends. One deslotment in a Crash-and-Burn and you were eliminated.
He eased around the curves, noticing other cars speeding by him. But he ignored them. Two years of slot car racing had taught him never to look at the other cars. You had to watch your own. It was often at that fraction of a second, when you took your eyes off your car, when it would spin out or deslot.
One car stalled before it completed its first lap, eliminating it from the race. Another spun out on its second lap. Down the straightaway, around the bend, under the overhead, up and around the S-bend, down the long stretch near the wall in back, then the wide banking U-curve, the sweeper, that led once again into the long straightaway. Around and around they raced, the best drivers—and the luckiest ones—staying in there.
“One minute’s up!” announced the race director.
Chick’s hopes climbed. He was still in there. So were Ken, Butch and Jack.
“Track!” someone yelled. The power was shut off. The cars stopped dead. And Chick saw that Ken’s Ford GTP had overshot the sweeper and gone sailing off into space and to the floor.
Five cars left on the track. Chick felt his pulse speed up as the race started again. The controller was hot in his hand. Hot and wet from his sweating palm.
Stay in there, you little red bomb! he pleaded. Stay in there!
Then it happened. On the sharp S-curve past the overhead at the left side of the track. The red Ferrari was making the sharp turn when up from its right side a yellow Lola T-70 came bursting at breakneck speed. Its tail spun out just enough to hit the Ferrari’s nose, de-slotting the flag.
Chick jerked his thumb up but it was too late to save the Ferrari. It skidded over the lanes, crashed against the high wall and shuddered to a dead stop.
“You—you—!” Chick glared at Jack Harmon. “You nerfed me! You nerfed me on purpose!”
Chick drew back his fist, but Ken grabbed his arm. “Hold it, Chick, or Mort will throw you out for good.”
Jack’s attention was on the Lola T-70 speeding around the track.
“It was an accident!” he said. “I didn’t mean to nerf you!”
Someone came and stood at Chick’s elbow. Someone big and authoritative. “Just let me see your shadow get into a scrap and you won’t race her again, Chick,” came Mort Yates’s stern warning.
Chick looked up at him. “But he nerfed me, Mort!”
“There’s no law that says you can’t,” said Mort. “Why don’t you try nerfing him?”
“Because I don’t like it, that’s why,” answered Chick hotly.
“I said I didn’t do it on purpose,” insisted Jack, the Lola T-70 still under his complete control. “Can’t we drop it there?”
Just then Butch’s black Porsche spun out on the sweeper and lay still. “For crying out loud, you guys!” he yelled. “Why don’t you keep your traps shut?”
The Porsche was out of the race too. Butch picked it up, shooting an angry look at Mort and Chick.
Chick managed to control his tongue and temper and hung around until the race was over. Jack’s car had won the first race, and then had won over the other three drivers, too.
Butch snapped at Chick outdoors, catching Chick by surprise. “You’re always shooting off your mouth, Chick. Why couldn’t you have waited till you were outside? I had a hot race going.”
“Oh, yeah? How about me? What would you do if Harmon had nerfed your car?”
“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t have yelled my head off like you did and thrown all the drivers off. Man!”
Chick clamped his lips and ran down the street. He expected—hoped—that Butch would yell for him to slow down, but Butch didn’t. A lump rose and stuck in his throat.
He almost bumped into Police Officer Tom Duffy as he rounded the corner onto Carbon Street. “Hey, watch it!” Tom yelled, holding out a ham-sized hand.
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Duffy.”
“What happened? Get into another scrap?”
There you go. You didn’t even have to tell people any more.
“Guess so,” said Chick, catching his breath. “Guess all I do is get into scraps.”
“Jack Harmon again?”
Chick nodded and explained what had happened. He also told about Butch.
“Don’t worry too much about either of them,” advised Mr. Duffy. “I know both boys just as well as you do. And I know you too, Chick. You can’t take a ribbing. You fly off the handle like an angry hornet when you’re picked on. That’s why they pick on you. They enjoy seeing you get hot under the collar. The only thing to do is learn to take it. Show ‘em you’re not bothered by their foolishness. Before long they’ll get tired of sticking those pins into you.”
Chick walked the rest of the way home, feeling a lot better. Guess policemen like Tom Duffy were made especially for kids like himself.
In math class the following day Mr. Wood row gave a fifteen-minute speed test. It was, in Chick’s opinion, tough. He skipped some problems, guessed at others. He was finished in ten minutes and spent the rest of the time drawing a racing car. It was low-slung, with narrow round wheels in front and wide flat ones in back.
After the papers were handed in Chick put the drawing away. He finished it in history class, adding the driver, the circled numbers and the windshield wipers. It was pretty snazzy, he thought.
Mr. Woodrow returned the corrected papers on Tuesday. Chick hated to look at the grade, but Mr. Woodrow’s blunt forefinger directed his eyes to it: 49.
“It’s not quite, but almost, the lowest mark in class, Chick,” announced Mr. Woodrow not too kindly. “I want you to study that chapter of problems again, then do the test over.”
Chick looked up. “You mean you’re giving me a chance to get a better mark?”
“Not at all, my boy. What I want is for you to do them all over again, but with one difference: They’re to be one-hundred percent correct. Do you understand that, Chick?”
Chick gulped and looked away. “I understand,” he said.
He was aware of every student in the room looking at him. One pair of eyes, in particular, drew his attention. The taunting, teasing eyes of Jack Harmon.
Chick remembered Mr. Duffy’s words of wisdom. Sure, he felt like giving Jack a dirty look back, but he wasn’t going to. He’d ignore Jack completely. He owed Mr. Duffy that much, to give his words of wisdom a chance to work.
“How about a race at Mort’s in half an hour?” asked Ken Jason. “I’d like to try out my Cooper Ford.”
“Fine,” said Jack. “How about it, Chick? It’ll give you a chance to even up on me. Or are you afraid I’ll nerf you?”
The skin on Chick’s neck crawled. “You did nerf me on purpose, didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t. I told you that. What you can’t seem to get through your thick skull, Chick Grover, is that my Lola T-70 can hold the track around curves better than almost any car around.”
They got their cars and went to Mort’s Pit Stop. Only three guys were racing their cars. Jack asked Mort if he and Ken and Chick could run a Crash-and-Burn. Sure, said Mort, as soon as the other three guys were finished.
About seven minutes later the track was clear. Ken, Chick and Jack paid their fee. Eddie Lane agreed to act as race director. The boys gave their cars a once-around-the-track trial run, then set them on the starting line.
Jack had No. 3, the orange lane; Ken, No. 5, the red lane; Chick, No. 7, the yellow lane.
“Thumbs down!” announced Eddie Lane.
The boys pushed down their controller plungers. Eddie counted, “One! Two! Three!,” yanked the switch, and the cars took off as if shot from rifles. They reached the first hairpin curve almost at the same time, Chick thumbing off and on to slow the Ferrari. The cars sped to the second curve, left again to the underpass, then right on the straightaway next to the wall. Ken’s Cooper Ford edged out Jack’s Lola and Chick’s Ferrari as the cars reached the sweeper at the right.
The Cooper Ford led at the finish of the first lap. The Lola was second, the Ferrari third. Chick kept the plunger down as the Ferrari zipped to the first hairpin, then thumbed up and down, up and down, to slow the little red car. He full-throttled it again as it headed for the next curve. Up on the plunger. Down again. The Ferrari swept past the Lola and came up even with the Cooper as they swept around the wide bend. Thumb all the way down, the Ferrari dashed past the Cooper and into the lead.
Caution forced Chick to thumb off again at the first hairpin. He did it just in time. The rear of the Ferrari whipped around slightly and would have spun out if he had waited an instant longer. As it was, the rear tires spun briefly before traction took hold and the little racer was on its way again. Chick held his breath. A stall would’ve meant elimination.
The slowdown gave Jack and Ken the chance to pass Chick. The Lola T-70 and the Cooper Ford were almost body to body as they roared around the sweeper. The Lola took the lead as the car finished their third lap.
Chick full-throttled the Ferrari around the wide bend and the straightaway, eased briefly on the hairpin, full-throttled again, eased on the second curve, then shot the Ferrari up to the underpass, letting up at the last instant. The Ferrari made the turn all right, then sped down the upper straightaway, passing the Cooper Ford and catching up with the Lola T-70 at the wide bend.
It kept the lead for the next three laps, going into the eighth section when the race director called out: “One minute! Yellow, seven laps, eight sections! Orange, seven laps, two! Red, six laps, eighteen!”
Chick hid a pleased grin. Six sections ahead of Jack wasn’t too safe a lead. Jack could make good time on the sharp curves and be way ahead of him before the two minutes were up.
Chick kept the Ferrari at full throttle as it roared down the upper straightaway and whipped around the sweeper. It zipped past him, ending the eighth lap.
Seconds later it ended the ninth lap, almost ten sections ahead of the Lola and a full lap ahead of the Cooper Ford.
Chick was ahead of Jack by fifteen sections at the end of the tenth lap. He grinned as he breezed the Ferrari around the two sharp curves and then through the underpass. He had it made now. The Lola was lost in his dust. It could hold the track at sharp curves better than most cars around? What a laugh!
“Thirty seconds!” announced Eddie Lane.
Chick full-throttled the Ferrari down the upper straightaway and into the steep bend. He passed Ken’s Cooper Ford, placing it two laps behind his Ferrari. What’s happened to Ken? wondered Chick.
Man, am I hot! I can make that little red Ferrari do anything I want it to!
The car finished the eleventh lap. Just a few seconds left, thought Chick. A few seconds…
Be careful going around the curve. Ease up a little. Now down to the next curve. Ease up again. There. Now full-throttle it. That’s it. Watch it! You’re at the underpass! Thumb off! Thumb off! You’re going too fast! Too fast!
The Ferrari spun out. Stalled.
“Oh, no!” cried Chick, cupping his head between his hands.
Jack Harmon won.
On Tuesday, after school, Ken invited Chick to race on his home track. Chick cleaned the tires of the Ferrari first with oil of wintergreen, smoothed the brushes, then he and Ken ran their racers a few laps to warm them up.
“Let’s run a Crash-and-Burn for two minutes,” suggested Ken.
“Okay.”
They lined up the racers—Chick his Ferrari and Ken his Ford GTP. Ken set the timer and at his count of “Three!” the cars took off. Chick full-throttled the Ferrari down to the first curve, eased up sharply, then sent it whirring down the long stretch, its rear end vibrating as if it tried to shake something off. Chick frowned. Now what?
He thumbed off and on at the doughnut curve, but too late. The flag deslotted.
Chick examined the tires again and found a cinder lodged on the right rear tire. He wiped it off.
“Say,” said Ken, “a week from Saturday Mort is holding a Concours d’Elégance, then Semi and Main racing events. Want to sign up?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Ken reset the timer and the boys started to race again. This time the little red Ferrari roared down the track with barely a shimmy. Ken led in the first two laps by inches, then crept steadily ahead. Chick tried to catch him on the straightaways but wasn’t able to. Neither could he gain on the curves. Ken knew what his car could do on these curves and used his knowledge to the hilt.
When the timer banged at the end of the two minutes, Ken’s Ford GTP had completed twenty-six laps to the Ferrari’s twenty-two.
“Let’s race again,” said Chick. “Make it five minutes this time.”
“Okay.”
This time Chick did better but Ken still won, sixty-one laps to Chick’s fifty-seven.
“You going to enter the Ferrari in the Con-cours again?” asked Ken.
“I don’t think it’s got much of a chance now,” said Chick truthfully. “It’s pretty banged up again.”
Ken took a low, sleek body with curved fenders, headlights, tail lights and long raindrop roof off a shelf. The blue paint was partly scratched off. The number on its sides was 8.
“You can have it,” he said. “It’s been sitting here collecting dust. It needs a new paint job and a driver and, of course,” he added, smiling, “a chassis, and motor!”
“What make body is it?”
“A Stingray. And it’s ½4th scale.”
Chick took it. “Thanks, Ken. You sure you don’t want anything for it?”
“I said I’m giving it to you, didn’t I?
” Chick grinned. “Yes, you did.”
On his way home he met Butch Slade. He and Butch hadn’t said more than a dozen words to each other in the last week. That silly argument had created a void in his life, left a hole so big he didn’t know what he could do to close it again. He had missed Butch. They’d been buddies as long as he could remember.
“Hi,” said Butch. “You still sore?”
Chick stared in surprise. “Sore? Heck, no. Why should I be sore?”
Butch shrugged and grinned a small grin. “Are you going to enter the events at Mort’s a week from Saturday? He’s giving some good prizes. You can have a chance to build up your equipment.”
“I think so. Matter of fact, see this?” Chick held up the shell of the Stingray. “I’m going to dress up this bomb, put a chassis in it and enter it in the Concours.”
“Man, you have a lot of dressing up to do on that one.”
“I know. But I’m going to do it, anyway. I’ve got that brass tube frame that I won and I’ll use the motor from the Ferrari. It’ll be almost like a second car.”
“More like a first!” Butch laughed. “Well, good luck.”
They parted and Chick felt much happier. How do you like that? Neither had to apologize to the other. They were friends again, just like that.
The next evening Chick began soldering the pieces for the chassis in the basement. A week from Saturday were the Heat Races, the Semifinals and the Main events. A week from Saturday!
He began to sweat and had trouble holding the tip of the soldering iron on the joints. He put down the strip of solder he had cut from the spool and wiped his forehead. He’d never get the car done in time to enter it in the Concours and Semis. Never!
He felt like giving up then and there. There would be other Concourses. Other races with prizes.
He set the iron aside, pressed his fists tightly against his eyes and swallowed hard. His left elbow struck the soldering iron and knocked it off the table. It banged against the leg of the bench and fell to the floor.
He picked it up and heard footsteps on the stairs. Who was it? Mom? Dad?
“What fell, Chick?”
It was Dad.
“The—the soldering iron.”
Dad came beside him. Chick was holding the iron and strip of solder above the joint he wanted to solder.
“You’ve been down here quite some time,” Dad said. “What have you done so far?”
For a second or two Chick was quiet. Then he answered, “Nothing.”
“That’s what I thought. What do you have to do?”
Chick told him. “But I can do it,” he added hastily. “You don’t have to—”
“What do you want soldered, Chick?” interrupted Dad.
Chick swallowed, then explained. Dad soldered the pieces of the chassis and secured the motor while Chick painted the body a royal blue and the white circle and figure 8 with their respective colors.
The next night, while Dad worked on the axles and wheels, Chick drew an instrument panel on a file card and painted it. Then he cut two small pieces of wire and dabbed one end of each with cement and fitted both of them to the windshield. By now the paint on the file card was dry. He cut out the instrument panel and glued it in place.
“Wipers and instrument panel,” said his father, smiling. “A nice touch. The chassis’s all ready, Chick.”
Chick fitted the body to it, then set the finished model on the bench.
“A beauty, son,” said Dad. “Keep this up and you’ll wind up being an automobile designer.”
Chick laughed. “They make a lot of money, Dad?”
Dad chuckled. “More than a clerk like myself.”
The next evening he put the revamped Stingray through its paces at Mort’s Pit Stop. Dad was with him.
“Only fifteen laps,” said Chick in disappointment after a two-minute trial run. “That’s not enough. It has to do at least eighteen or it won’t have a chance.”
“What can we do?”
“Rewind the motor. But I don’t know how…”
“That’ll increase its gear ratio, won’t it? I’ll help you.”
Dad rewound the motor. The next day they took the Stingray back to Mort’s. This time the Stingray hit eighteen laps and three sections.
“It’s coming, Dad,” Chick said triumphantly.
On Friday, the day before the races, he and Ken went to Mort’s Pit Stop, registered, paid their entry fees and had their cars inspected. Mort himself inspected them.
“Going to enter your cars in the Con-cours?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Chick.
“Then you’d better be here early. The Con-cours starts at one-thirty sharp.”
“We’ll be here,” said Chick.
They read the Model Car Racing announcement before leaving.
SATURDAY, NOV. 16
1:30 P.M. CONCOURS D’ELEGANCE
1st Prize: |
White ribbon and model car kit |
2nd Prize: |
Red ribbon and deluxe controller |
3rd, 4th & |
|
5th Prizes: |
Blue ribbons designating place won in contest |
2:00 P.M. HEAT RACE
First 6 winners: |
Ribbons and right to compete in Main Event. Balance of drivers to race in consolation races according to performance. |
2:30 P.M. FIRST CONSOLATION RACE
Ribbons to first 2 winners
3:00 P.M. SECOND CONSOLATION RACE
Ribbons to first 2 winners
3:30 P.M. SEMI-MAIN EVENT
Ribbons to first 2 winners
4:00 P.M. MAIN EVENT
1st Prize: |
Trophy plus $ 10 in merchandise |
2nd Prize: |
Ribbon plus $5 in merchandise |
3rd Prize: |
Ribbon plus $2 in merchandise |
4th Prize: |
$1.00 Track time |
5th Prize: |
$ 75 Track time |
No Limitation
“They’re pretty good prizes,” observed Ken.
“I’ll say.” Chick’s pulse was already speeding up.
The Concours d’Elégance was on.
There were twenty-three cars entered, all lined up at an angle and side by side on a shelf by the wall left of the raceway. Eddie Lane was judge, as before. Each boy with a car in the Concours waited breathlessly.
Mine won’t win, thought Chick, his hands clasped tightly behind him. There are too many that are more good-looking. That bright shiny red Lola GT, for example. That Mako Shark II with Firestone lettered on the tires. And that sharp, forest-green Camaro with the chrome door handles and silver bumpers. They’re terrific.
The judge added up the scores. At last he picked up the blue ribbons. Chick breathed ever so slowly. The fifth prize went to the Mako Shark II. The fourth prize to a green Rover BRM. The third prize… Chick breathed easier now. There was no use being anxious. His Stingray had no chance. The third prize went to an orange Ferrari. The second prize, a red ribbon… Chick’s heart pounded like a hammer gone crazy. The judge was putting it on his Stingray!
Someone—Ken—slapped him on the shoulder. “Chick! You won second prize! A deluxe controller!”
Chick was dazed.
The first prize went to the Camaro with the chrome door handles.
“Nice going, Chick,” said Jack Harmon, whose entry was a pink Chaparral. “That’s the second time you’ve won a prize in a Con-cours. Well, let’s see what your bomb can do in the Heat!”
Don’t sass him back, thought Chick. Don’t let him get your goat. Remember the wise words of Mr. Duffy.
At three minutes of two Eddie Lane made an announcement. “Attention, racers! The Heat Race will begin in exactly three minutes. It will last for two minutes. There are twenty-three entries. The six drivers who complete the most laps in the two minutes are qualified to enter the Main Event. Drivers who place eighteenth through twenty-third will compete in the First Consolation Race. The first two winners in that race will then compete in the Second Consolation Race. The other four are eliminated.
“Drivers who place thirteenth through seventeenth will compete in the Second Consolation Race with the two winners of the First Consolation Race. The first two winners in this race will compete in the Semi-Main Event. The other five drivers are eliminated. Drivers who place seventh through twelfth in the Heat Race will also compete in the Semi-Main Event. The first two winners in the Semi-Main Event will compete in the Main Event. The remaining five are eliminated.
“I’ll call off your names in the order that you’ve registered. Choose your lane, take two practice laps, then wait at the starting line. Number One, Dick Ealy. Number Two, Jack Harmon. Number Three, Harry Mills ...”
Eddie called off eight names. Chick’s wasn’t one of them. After the eight drivers raced, eight more would be called and then the remaining seven for the Heat Race.
Color stickers, matching the lanes for identification, were put on the cars. Then the cars were lined up. Jack’s was in the yellow lane, Number 7. Four turn marshals were in their positions at the corners.
“Okay,” said Eddie. “At the count of three! Thumbs down! One! Two! Three!”
Eddie switched on the power and the cars took off. They streaked to the first hairpin curve, slowed briefly, their tails whipping out ever so slightly. A black Lola 40 scrambled into the lead going into the second curve, followed by two Ferraris, and Jack Harmon’s Chaparral fourth. For two laps there was little change. Then the Chaparral moved up into third position and held the spot for five laps.
Suddenly one of the Ferraris spun out at the dangerous S-curve at the underpass. An instant later, just as the turn marshal shouted “Track!,” the car in the next lane struck the spunout racer and deslotted.
The turn marshal placed the cars quickly back on the tracks. At the count of “Three!” the race continued. The black Lola held the lead for the next four laps, creeping steadily ahead. A Ferrari was in second place, Jack Harmon’s Chaparral in third.
At the end of a minute the black Lola had covered ten laps, the Ferrari nine and Jack’s Chaparral eight laps and ten sections.
Jack’s Chaparral crept ahead, gaining at the curves. The seconds ticked off slowly while the cars gobbled up the sections.
“Time’s up!” Eddie Lane yelled. “Don’t touch your cars till I get their laps recorded!”
A Ferrari 250 GTO came in first with nineteen laps, four sections. Jack Harmon’s Chaparral came in second with eighteen laps, seventeen sections.
Seconds later Eddie had them recorded, then called off the names of the next eight drivers. Chick waited breathlessly. At last: “Number Six, Chick Grover. Number Seven, Kenneth Jason. Number Eight—”
Chick chose the orange lane, Number 3. Ken, the green lane, Number 2. They put color stickers on their cars. The drivers took two trial laps each, then the race began.
Chick’s hand was warm on the controller, his thumb pressing the plunger way down as the royal blue Stingray shot for the first curve. Up on the plunger. Down again on the short straightaway. Up again as the car approached the second turn. The tail whipped slightly as the Stingray burst across the stretch to the underpass, slowed briefly as it negotiated the S-curve, then shot like a blue streak down the long stretch near the wall to the sweeper. Down it came and breezed like a bullet in front of Chick to complete its first lap.
A racer spun out on its second lap. Another deslotted and roared over the tracks, tumbling over the side to the floor as it tried to take the inside curve of the steep, wide bend too fast.
Seconds later the racer in the white lane spun out on the first S-curve. The car in the purple lane stalled almost in the same section. At the end of the Heat Race the car in the blue lane came in first with eighteen laps, three sections; the car in the purple lane seventeen laps, eight sections; Chick’s car in the orange lane seventeen laps, two sections; Ken’s car in the green lane sixteen laps, eight sections; the car in the yellow lane sixteen laps, four sections and the car in the black lane fifteen laps, one section.
All of the last seven cars finished the Heat. Eddie Lane tallied the points. Chick and Ken waited anxiously.
“Beat you by a lap and a half,” said a voice at Chick’s elbow.
Chick stiffened. “So what? That was just the Heat.”
Jack Harmon chuckled. “I know. I never do as well as I can in Heats. I’m best in Semis or Mains, where it really counts.”
The braggart, thought Chick coldly.
“Attention!” Eddie’s booming voice over the loudspeaker silenced the room. “The six winners of the Heat Race eligible to compete in the Main Event are: Number one, James Sand. Number two, Paul Miller. Number three, Kim Norman. Number four, Frank Spry. Number five, Jack Harmon. Number six, Bob Sobus.”
A fist poked Chick gently in the ribs. “Well, how about that? I don’t have to worry about the consolation races!”
Chick turned grim eyes at Jack Harmon. “And I don’t have to worry about being nerfed.”
Too late. The one thing he didn’t want to do anymore was sass. Jack Harmon, in particular. Jack could rattle him to pieces. And when you’re racing model cars you can’t be rattled or you’re sunk. You can’t think of anything else. You can’t think of how many laps you’re behind or ahead of the other guy or you’ll lose for sure.
“Guess you’ll never get it through your fat head that I wouldn’t nerf you on purpose, will you?” said Jack.
Chick didn’t answer.
He and Ken placed fourteenth and sixteenth respectively, qualifying them in the Second Consolation Race. Butch Slade’s black Porsche came in eighteenth.
The drivers in the First Consolation Race who had finished eighteenth through twenty-third in the Heat Races selected lanes and put color stickers on their cars. Each car took its two trial laps, then lined up at the starting line.
“Okay!” said race director Eddie Lane. “The first driver to cross the finish line after twenty laps wins first place! The next car in line wins second place! The others are eliminated! Get ready!”
The power was switched on and the cars took off. A red Mustang took the lead immediately. It shot to the first hairpin, slowed ever so briefly, shot to the next hairpin, slowed again, then blazed across the longer stretch to the underpass. A Barracuda was second, a Porsche third, a blue Ferrari fourth. A Ford GTP and a Lola T-70 trailed.
The Mustang led the pack across the long straightaway near the wall. At the steep bank Butch’s black Porsche caught up. The cars remained tire to tire as they blazed across the starting line to complete lap one.
The Mustang pulled ahead after the first sharp curve, slithered to the second. Then, just as it slowed to make the turn, its tail spun out and the car stopped! But only for a second. The fat rear wheels spun, found traction and the car took off again. But that second was enough for Butch’s Porsche to pull into the lead.
It stayed in the lead for five laps.
Then—a surprise. The blue Ferrari blazed by the Porsche down the sweeper and sprang into the lead! It held it for two laps then was overtaken by the Mustang.
Come on, Butch! breathed Chick.
The Porsche was less than half a section behind the Ferrari as it whipped through the underpass then blasted across the straightaway. It caught up with the Ferrari at the sweeper, went ahead momentarily, then trailed again. It remained third to the seventeenth lap, just two sections behind the Ferrari and about half a lap behind the Mustang.
In the eighteenth lap the Porsche did it. It came up even with the Ferrari, edged by it as both cars made the first sharp curve, stayed ahead going into the second and during the short stretch to the underpass. Watch it here, Butch!
The Porsche hung in there. It was ahead by two sections as it completed its nineteenth lap.
The horn buzzed. The cars stopped. The Mustang was first to complete the twenty laps. In second place was Butch Slade’s Porsche.
The cars that had placed thirteenth through seventeenth in the Heat Race competed in the Second Consolation Race with the two winners of the First Consolation Race.
The place winners, beginning with the thirteenth, chose their lanes. A gold Dodge Charger was in the black, Chick’s Stingray in the yellow, a red Firebird in the purple, Ken Jason’s Ford GTP in the red, the Mustang in the blue, Butch Slade’s Porsche in the orange and a Lola 40 in the green.
“Thumbs down!” The Second Consolation Race was on.
The cars took off together as the power was turned on. Chick was filled with excitement and fear, fear of spinning out and thus losing ground. He tried to shake it off, to remain as calm as he could, to think only of the Stingray as it zipped from one curve to the other, skimmed like bolt lightning across the straightaways, and glided down the sweeper.
Suddenly the red Firebird spun out at the underpass.
“Track!” a turn marshal shouted.
The cars stopped for a couple of seconds as the car was straightened and its flag re-slotted.
Five laps. Six. Seven. On and on… Only two could win. Only two would enter in the Semi-Main Event.
Chick felt as if the room were closing in on him. The controller was like a hot iron in his hand as he watched his little Stingray take the corners ever so beautifully and slither like a blue streak down the stretches.
What lap was it now? Eleventh? Twelfth? It seemed so long ago when they had started. Where was the Dodge Charger? He seemed to remember gliding past it around the wide bend. He wasn’t sure. How were Ken and Butch doing?
No! his mind shouted at him. Don’t think of the others!
Suddenly the yell: “Twenty laps!”
The cars stopped. Everyone looked anxiously at the race director.
“The winner: black lane!”
It was the gold Dodge Charger. The owner jumped happily and whooped like an Indian. Then silence.
“Number two winner: yellow lane!”
Someone yelled in Chick’s ears and pounded him on the back. “Chick! You won second place!”
He was so choked he couldn’t speak. He stretched and unstretched his fingers, then wiped his sweating forehead. He had crossed the second hurdle. The next would be stiffer.
“Sorry, Butch,” said Chick.
Butch shrugged. “So am I. But we both can’t win.”
“You did okay, Chick,” said Jack Harmon. “But the Semi is tougher. You’re up against real tough bombs in that one. But, of course, you know that. You’re getting to be a champ.”
Chick’s face turned iron-hot. He clenched his fist and then unclenched it. He knew Jack wanted him to get rattled. Jack figured that if Chick got rattled he’d blow up and lose the race.
Chick forced a smile. “I’ll do the best I can.”
“Get ready for the Semi!” yelled the race director.
The drivers who had placed seventh through twelfth chose their lanes. The boy with the Dodge Charger chose the green lane, leaving the remaining white outside lane to Chick.
“This will be fifty laps!” the race director announced. “The first car to finish is winner. The next car with the most number of laps is second place winner. Both winners will then compete in the Main Event. All right. At the count of three. Thumbs down! One! Two! Three!”
The race was on.
The red Porsche 904 in the purple lane took the lead going into the hairpin and held it going into the second curve. A blue Lola T-70 gained on it as all eight cars streaked toward the underpass. All eight made the sharp S-curve, tore down the long straightaway and down the sweeper. The Porsche was first to finish the first lap, the Lola T-70 second, the Dodge Charger third, and Chick’s Stingray fourth.
Round and round…
Chick’s thumb trembled on the plunger as he pressed it down to full-throttle the Stingray on the stretches. Rrrrrrrrrrr! Eight motors roared as one as the racers swarmed down the sweeper, eating up the sections and then the laps.
The Stingray pulled ahead of the Charger. It gained on the red Porsche. The Ferrari 275P whizzed by it at the underpass, threatening to catch up with the Porsche. Chick full-throttled the Stingray down the long straight, held it full speed on the sweeper. It was gaining… gaining…
Three laps later it overtook the Ferrari. Round and round… Round and round…
“Thirty laps!” yelled the Race Director.
Round and round…
“Forty laps!”
“Forty-five!”
The controller was hot in Chick’s hand. Which position was he in? The Third? Fourth? Fifth?
Round and round…
And then the shout: “FIFTY LAPS!” The cars stopped. Gently, Chick lay the controller aside and stretched his tension-gripped fingers. And waited.
“The winner, Ted Curit’s Ferrari 275P! Second place winner, Chick Grover’s Stingray!”
Chick gulped.
“Well, you came through again, champ!” cried Jack Harmon. “Let’s see what you can do in the Main!”
Chick dabbed drops of oil of wintergreen on the rear tires of the Stingray in readiness for the last race, drank a glass of orange juice with Ken and Butch, and rested.
“Thumbs down! One! Two! Three!”
The Main Event was on. Two hundred laps. This was the big one. The real big one. Rrrrrrrrr! Motors roared. Sparks flickered as all eight cars took off at the same time.
Watch your car carefully! Concentrate every second!
Round and round…
The Stingray, a Cheetah Riverside and a Porsche 904 hung together down the stretches and the curves as if a stiff wire were drawn through them. A gray Alfa Romeo in the white lane crept slowly ahead. A Ford GT in the red lane and a Lola 40 in the purple were a couple of sections ahead. The Ferrari 250 GTO and Jack Harmon’s Chaparral were fighting for the lead.
Round and round and round…
The Alfa Romeo deslotted at the sweeper and went sailing over the track to the floor.
“Track!” shouted a turn marshal.
The power was shut off. The car put back on the track. The power turned on.
“Lane eight, twenty-five laps,” called the race director. “Lane seven, twenty-four. Lane six, twenty-four. Lane five, twenty-two. Lane four, twenty-three. Lane three, twenty-three. Lane two, twenty-three. Lane one, twenty-one.”
Lane three, twenty-three. That’s me! thought Chick. That’s my Stingray!
The Ferrari spun out at the underpass. “Track!”
Round and round…
And then, at the first hairpin, the Stingray spun out.
“Track!”
“Oh, no!” cried Chick.
The spinout helped the other cars to gain at least a section or two on him. He had to gain them back, and more.
“Thumbs down! One! Two! Three!”
Chick tried to concentrate on the race now more than ever. The controller was like a torch in his sweating hand. Sweat beaded his forehead, dripped into his eyes. He wiped it away.
“Car in lane four completes fifty laps,” announced the race director. “Lane eight, forty-eight. Lane seven, forty-seven. Lane six, forty-five. Lane five, forty-three. Lane three, forty-five. Lane two, forty-four. Lane one, forty-nine.”
Lane seven, forty-seven laps. That’s Jack Harmon’s, thought Chick. And I’ve got forty-five. Come on, Stingie! Watch the curve! Up with the thumb! Now down! That’s it! Thumb up again! That second curve comes awfully fast. Pump the plunger! Down with the thumb to the underpass! Up! Down again around the S! Watch that tail! Don’t let it spin out!
There! Made it! Down the long straight-away along the wall. Then the sweeper. Keep it down! Down! Was that a green Ford you passed? Never mind! Keep going, and keep your eyes open.
One hundred laps…
“… lane seven, ninety-four!”
“… lane three, ninety-two!”
Chick heard the other announcements but he was mostly interested in those two. Jack Harmon’s and his.
One hundred and fifty laps…
“… lane seven, one hundred and forty-five!” Jack’s gained a little! “… lane three, one hundered and forty-four!”
One lap behind!
Round and round…
A car spun out at the sweeper and went tumbling over the side. “Track!” A momentary delay as a turn marshal went to pick it up. The white sticker on it read 1. It was one of the leaders.
“Too bad,” said the turn marshal. “Motor’s busted.”
Round and round…
“Car in lane four, one hundred and ninety laps. Lane eight, one hundred seventy-nine. Lane seven, one hundred eighty. Lane six, one hundred sixty-two. Lane five, one hundred seventy-eight. Lane three,” Chick listened hard, “one hundred eighty.”
He was tied with Jack! He didn’t listen any further. Come on, Stingie! Come on!
He was even with Jack’s Chaparral coming down the sweeper and along the straightaway. At the first hairpin Jack edged by him. He held the lead going to the second curve. At the underpass the Stingray caught up and stayed even with the Chaparrel going down the straightaway to the sweeper. Coming down the stretch the Stingray gained a half a section! By the time it was on the top straightaway again it was two sections ahead!
Round and round…
“One hundred ninety-nine! TWO HUNDRED!”
The Main Event was over.
Chick laid the controller aside and stretched his aching fingers and thumb.
“The winner! Lane four, Frank Spry! Second prize winner, lane three, Chick Gro-ver!” That’s all he wanted to know. He didn’t listen any further.
Ken Jason and Butch Slade slapped him heartily on the back. “Nice going, Chick!” they cried enthusiastically.
“Thanks, guys,” he said shakily.
A hand grabbed his and shook it hard. Jack Harmon wore a smile a mile wide. “Congratulations, Chick! You were great!”
His heart was pumping. He was trembling all over. He felt great.
“Thanks, Jack. How—how did you do?”
“Didn’t you hear? I came in third.”
“Guess we both have a couple of hot bombs.”
“It’s not only the bombs,” said Jack. “Well, I don’t want to sound like a braggart, but it’s the man at the controllers too. You have a smart thumb, Chick. And most important of all you didn’t get rattled.”
“I would’ve lost if I had,” said Chick. “You knew it, too.”
“Yes, I did.” Jack shrugged. “I’m sorry about that. I hope you believe me.”
“I do.”
Chick was given a gold ribbon and a five-dollar gift certificate entitling him to purchase merchandise at Mort’s Pit Stop. Jack was given a blue ribbon with a two-dollar gift certificate.
Chick thought a while, then held the envelope containing the gift certificate to Ken. “Here, for giving me that Stingray body.”
Ken’s eyes popped. “You crazy? You earned it! It’s yours!”
“But you gave me the body. And you never took a cent for it. Please, Ken, take it.”
Ken pushed it away. “Not on your life. You fixed up the Stingray from scratch. You deserve every bit of your winnings yourself.”
“Boy, have you changed,” said Jack. “Like Ken says, keep your winnings. You earned every bit of it.”
“Then let’s have a team,” suggested Chick. “The four of us.”
“Now you’re talking sense!” Jack exclaimed. “We’ll scratch-build models. You can be our chief designer. Okay?”
Chick laughed. “Okay! Great! Let’s go home and get started.”