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 andcrossed 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!
5
“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. Hestarted 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
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 andcrossed 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!
5
“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. Hestarted 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
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