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.
3
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 themoney 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 afifty-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”
He picked up Whitey, the fluffy white cat, put him on his lap and stroked him. One thing about cats: they never had problems.
3
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 themoney 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 afifty-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”
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