LITMIR.BIZ

      THE front wheels of the jalopy wobbled uncertainly in the car tracks for a moment and then buckled almost at right angles as Robert “Speed” Morris slammed on the brakes and slid the brilliantly painted rattletrap squarely against the curb in front of the Sugar Bowl.

      With the screech of the brakes the crowd of boys on the sidewalk looked up and scattered in mock fear and horror, screaming and yelling: “Destry rides again!” “Hi-yo, Silver!” “It’s a plane—it’s a bird! No! It’s SUPERMAN!”

      Speed laughed and nudged the tall, blond boy seated at his side. “Okay, pal,” he said, “unload the body!”

      William “Chip” Hilton grinned and swung his bandaged leg through the space which formerly had been graced by a door. As he limped across the walk he was greeted by: “Hiya, Chip!” “Atta boy, Chip!” “How’s the ole pin?”

      Hilton greeted them briefly and swung on through the door. Crutches would have helped ease the weight on his leg, but that would have been too much—he just wouldn’t do it! Doc Jones had finally consented to their elimination, but Chip didn’t know he had been confined an extra ten days because of his distaste for those same crutches.

      “Well, if it ain’t ole Chipper himself,” yelled Petey Jackson delightedly, spilling half the coke he held in his skinny hand. “Hey! Hey! The gang’s all here! How’s about a little grip of the flipper, kid?”

      Little Petey Jackson was the best soda jerk in town. He was older than Chip and had quit school several years earlier to go to work. However, he was a rabid sports fan and extremely popular with the athletes. When Chip had been injured, Petey was one of the first to visit him at the hospital. When Chip had been worried sick about his job at the Sugar Bowl because it meant so much in helping out at home, Petey had volunteered to take care of Chip’s work and had been handling both jobs all during Hilton’s absence.

      Petey pumped Chip’s arm and appraised him aloud. “Huh! Pretty soft! Must weigh two hundred pounds. Looks taller, too!” He led Hilton laughing and protesting to the penny scales. “Get on, Big Boy,” he said, “we’ll see.” He dropped a coin in the slot and then affected shocked surprise. “Only one-seventy? Six feet two, and only one-seventy? What’d they feed you up at that repair shop?”

      Chip hung on to Petey’s hand as they slapped and tugged at one another. It was sure good to be back. . . .

      “How ya feelin’, pal? When ya comin’ back to the ole grind?”

      “It’s up to the boss; hope it’s right away. Where is he?”

      “Storeroom, as usual. Go on back.”

      John Schroeder was the most popular businessman in Valley Falls and was intensely interested in the high school youngsters. His interest went beyond the needs of his drugstore business, for he was well to do and could have retired long ago had he wished. Many people said that he had opened the sweet shop adjoining his drugstore just so the high school kids would have a social center. Others said he did it to keep the youngsters out of the pharmacy. He looked up from his desk as Hilton opened the door, and his surprised expression quickly changed to an enthusiastic smile.

      “Hello, Chip! Am I glad to see you! Come on in here and sit down. How are you feeling anyway?” Without waiting for an answer he grabbed Hilton by the hand and led him over to the desk chair. “Boy, I’ll bet you’re glad to get out of the house again.”

      “I sure am, Mr. Schroeder. I want to thank you for coming up to see me and—”

      “Tut, tut,” broke in the kindly man, “think I wouldn’t?”

      “No, sir—but—Mr. Schroeder—Mom wanted me to thank you for keeping my pay going. I didn’t deserve it.”

      John Schroeder walked over and gently shoved a half-closed fist against Hilton’s jaw. “Now, listen to me, youngster. If you hadn’t deserved it, you wouldn’t have gotten it. Understand?”

      Chip gulped. “I’d like to get back to work if you still want me—”

      “Well, you don’t think for a minute that anyone could take your place, do you?” Mr. Schroeder smiled. “Sure, you can come back to work—sooner the better! Petey’s been doing swell, but he probably has every corner in the place swept full of dust. As for some of those showcases out there—they haven’t been washed for a week!”

      “I’ll start tonight then, if it’s all right with you.”

      “Sure, start right in. Tonight’s a good time.”

      Hilton did all of the cleaning in the drugstore and the Sugar Bowl. His work consisted of sweeping out, washing the big glass windows, polishing the counters, burning papers, stocking the shelves, unpacking and checking supplies, and boxing shipments. It was a tough job, but it was vital to Chip because it still left him time to do his schoolwork and take part in athletics.

      John Schroeder closed both stores at eleven o’clock every night except Saturday, and Hilton started work as soon as the doors were locked. There was only about an hour’s cleaning work to be done at night. Chip was allowed to do his other chores at any time of the day most convenient to his personal program. Occasionally, Speed Morris, Taps Browning, or Biggie Cohen would join him in the storeroom and study. Later they would help him “close up.”

      Chip peeked out the storeroom door. It was just like old times. . . . Speed was sitting on the last chair at the soda counter, intently absorbed in Petey’s latest coin-and-glass trick. Out front, Chip could see Fats Ohlsen holding forth. Everything was the same. . . . Closing the door gently, he breathed a sigh of satisfaction and rejoined John Schroeder.

      Although several days had passed since Valley Falls had defeated Steeltown for the state football championship of Section Two, the drugstore quarterbacks were still talking about the victory. They grouped in front of the Sugar Bowl every evening and second-guessed the strategy of the coach and even the quarterbacking of Speed Morris—everyone’s hero.

      Tonight, big, blustering Joel “Fats” Ohlsen, a head taller than anyone present, had the center of the stage. He had singled out Chip Hilton as his pet peeve, and was holding forth aggressively to his particular cronies.

      “Well, we won without the great Hilton, didn’t we? He thought the team would fall apart when he got hurt. Anyway, he deserved what he got—going high hat with Piggie Thomas after the Delford game!”

      “Yeah!” agreed someone. “Yeah, can you imagine that? The janitor of the Sugar Bowl had to ride home in a Packard with society. Why, he was the great Chip Hilton, the star, the captain, the big shot!”

      “Too good to come home in the bus with the rest of the team,” growled Fats. “Huh! No wonder they had a wreck; probably talked Piggie blind bragging about himself.”

      “Don’t see how you can blame Hilton for the wreck,” ventured Stinky Ferris. “Piggie was driving.”

      “Speedin’s the word for

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