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. Itwas 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!”
4
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 tookup 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, hislegs sprawled out and his fingers interlaced across his
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. Itwas 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!”
4
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 tookup 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, hislegs sprawled out and his fingers interlaced across his
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