man, what’s up? Aren’t you talking?”
Jim looked around. Barry was standing beside him, gazing at him bewilderedly.
“What?”
Barry smiled, put a hand on Jim’s shoulder, and shook him. “Are you all right? You look as if you’re in outer space!”
Jim stared at him — stared deep into those mild, friendly eyes. Just as he thought. Barry could not have done those terrible
things. No guilty person could look into his eyes like that and say what Barry had said.
That left only one other person.
“I should have known,” Jim told himself silently. “Darn it all, I should have known.”
There was good news when Jim got home that afternoon. The bright, happy glow on his fathers face was all he needed to know
what had happened.
“You got a job, Dad!”
“Right!”
“Where?”
“At Casey’s Company.”
“Great!”
He didn’t tell his father, nor anyone else in the family, about his own quiet victory. He would wait till later, when he was
sure the door was closed on it for good.
The game with the Floralview Bucs got underway as scheduled that night. It was a hot, muggy evening — better weather for baseball
than football.
Jim, standing in front of the Rams’ bench, watched the two teams line up for the opening kick-off. He looked at the green-uniformed
Bucs, whose front line looked to average three or four pounds heavier per man than the Rams’.
Floralview had a 2-0 record. They had blasted the Riverside Bulldogs last week, 40–7, but had just managed to squeak past
the Coral Town Indians the week before, 14–13. The sportswriter for the
Port Lee Daily
gave the Bucs a seven-point edge to win the game. The
Nuggets’
sportswriter-photographer, Jerry Watkins, gave the Rams a six-point edge.
The whistle blew. The Bucs kickoff man raised his hand. Then, on signal, the two lines sprang ahead.
BOOM!
Toe connected with ball, and like a shot the football left the tee and sailed end over end through the air deep into Rams
territory.
Tony Nichols, standing on his ten-yard line, caught the ball against his stomach, and rushed up to the twenty-two where he
was smeared.
“Well! He finally made it,” a strong voice said at his side.
Jim looked at Coach Butler standing beside him. Then he saw that the coach wasn’t referring to Tony, but to someone who had
just come into the football stadium, Jerry Watkins. The schools sportswriter-photographer, his camera paraphernalia hanging
by a strap around his neck, was jogging in.
Jim felt a chill ripple along his spine. He hadn’t minded it a bit when the coach had told him he was starting Barry at tight
end. He had his mind full of a problem, and until he had the problem cleared away he knew he wasn’t worth his salt in the
game. He had hoped it would have been taken care of by now, so he would have been able to start. But the source of his problem
had just made his appearance.
Jim took a deep breath and exhaled it as he stepped back and started to walk behind his teammates toward Jerry. He had it
all arranged what he was going to say to Jerry. He didn’t give a darn what Jerry did after that. Jerry might deny every word
he said at first. But the minute Jim told him that he had proof—that he had his fathers magazine outof which Jerry had torn the page he had mailed to Jim — his goose was cooked. He could not deny then that he was the guy who
had made those malicious phone calls, pinned the picture of a convict on the wall of Jims fathers garage, and planted Pat
Simmons’s drawing pencil on the ground near it to cast the blame on Pat.
The Rams’ cheerleaders were chanting:
We’ve got the coach!
We’ve got the team!
We’ve got the pep!
We’ve got the steam!
Coach! Team! Pep! Steam!
Fight, Rams! Fight!
Jim caught Margo looking at him. She had her hair up in a ponytail. She looked pretty neat in her short pleated maroon skirt,
he thought.
She waved to him. He moved his head in a subtle gesture, then said
Jim looked around. Barry was standing beside him, gazing at him bewilderedly.
“What?”
Barry smiled, put a hand on Jim’s shoulder, and shook him. “Are you all right? You look as if you’re in outer space!”
Jim stared at him — stared deep into those mild, friendly eyes. Just as he thought. Barry could not have done those terrible
things. No guilty person could look into his eyes like that and say what Barry had said.
That left only one other person.
“I should have known,” Jim told himself silently. “Darn it all, I should have known.”
There was good news when Jim got home that afternoon. The bright, happy glow on his fathers face was all he needed to know
what had happened.
“You got a job, Dad!”
“Right!”
“Where?”
“At Casey’s Company.”
“Great!”
He didn’t tell his father, nor anyone else in the family, about his own quiet victory. He would wait till later, when he was
sure the door was closed on it for good.
The game with the Floralview Bucs got underway as scheduled that night. It was a hot, muggy evening — better weather for baseball
than football.
Jim, standing in front of the Rams’ bench, watched the two teams line up for the opening kick-off. He looked at the green-uniformed
Bucs, whose front line looked to average three or four pounds heavier per man than the Rams’.
Floralview had a 2-0 record. They had blasted the Riverside Bulldogs last week, 40–7, but had just managed to squeak past
the Coral Town Indians the week before, 14–13. The sportswriter for the
Port Lee Daily
gave the Bucs a seven-point edge to win the game. The
Nuggets’
sportswriter-photographer, Jerry Watkins, gave the Rams a six-point edge.
The whistle blew. The Bucs kickoff man raised his hand. Then, on signal, the two lines sprang ahead.
BOOM!
Toe connected with ball, and like a shot the football left the tee and sailed end over end through the air deep into Rams
territory.
Tony Nichols, standing on his ten-yard line, caught the ball against his stomach, and rushed up to the twenty-two where he
was smeared.
“Well! He finally made it,” a strong voice said at his side.
Jim looked at Coach Butler standing beside him. Then he saw that the coach wasn’t referring to Tony, but to someone who had
just come into the football stadium, Jerry Watkins. The schools sportswriter-photographer, his camera paraphernalia hanging
by a strap around his neck, was jogging in.
Jim felt a chill ripple along his spine. He hadn’t minded it a bit when the coach had told him he was starting Barry at tight
end. He had his mind full of a problem, and until he had the problem cleared away he knew he wasn’t worth his salt in the
game. He had hoped it would have been taken care of by now, so he would have been able to start. But the source of his problem
had just made his appearance.
Jim took a deep breath and exhaled it as he stepped back and started to walk behind his teammates toward Jerry. He had it
all arranged what he was going to say to Jerry. He didn’t give a darn what Jerry did after that. Jerry might deny every word
he said at first. But the minute Jim told him that he had proof—that he had his fathers magazine outof which Jerry had torn the page he had mailed to Jim — his goose was cooked. He could not deny then that he was the guy who
had made those malicious phone calls, pinned the picture of a convict on the wall of Jims fathers garage, and planted Pat
Simmons’s drawing pencil on the ground near it to cast the blame on Pat.
The Rams’ cheerleaders were chanting:
We’ve got the coach!
We’ve got the team!
We’ve got the pep!
We’ve got the steam!
Coach! Team! Pep! Steam!
Fight, Rams! Fight!
Jim caught Margo looking at him. She had her hair up in a ponytail. She looked pretty neat in her short pleated maroon skirt,
he thought.
She waved to him. He moved his head in a subtle gesture, then said
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