Boy's Cinema (1933)

16 "How'd we escape?" "Car hit a hayrick. You were lucky —thrown clear. Westcott kept hold of the steering-wheel, and was thrown against it. Got a fractured pelvis. Now you know all about it, so quit talking." Kelly closed his eyes peacefully. But not for long. After a few minutes there came the sound of a weak voice from over the other side of the car. Kelly opened his eyes again and turned his head slightly. "Kelly—Kelly " " Yeah ? I'm here, boss." It had been Westcott speaking. "Kelly, Bill ain't got no one to care for him now." Westcott's voice sounded weak, terribly weak. "His mother's dead, and I " "You'd better quit talking, too, Mr. Westcott," broke in the orderly. "You won't be doing yourself any good else." "Let me—talk. I must. Kelly—are you listening?" "Yeah. What is it, Jack?" "Bill—he's only twelve. When I've gone he'll be alone. I make you his guardian, Kelly. Look after him—and His voice trailed off into nothingness. Kelly listened for it to go on, tears somehow blinding him. Presently he asked: "Go on, Jack. I'm hearing every word you say." It was the orderly who replied. His voice was curiously hushed. : "He won't talk no more," he said. "He's dead." "Gosh!" Kelly muttered, and broke down unashamedly. A month later he was sitting in his room in a small apartment house up in Yonkers. He was well again. From the look of him anyone would think he had never been smashed up. Before him stood a small boy. It was Bill, Westcott's son. Kelly eyed him humorously. "Kid," he said, "from now on you've got to look to me as father, mother, and great-grand-uncle, but, somehow, the name Bill don't fit you. Do you know what I'm "going to call you?" "No," said the kid, excited by the prospect of his new life. "What?" "I'm going to call vou Big Shot— like it?" "Gee !" said the kid. "I think that s grand." So Big Shot it was ! Fear ! BIG SHOT and Kelly were insepar- able companions during the next four years. They went everywhere together—Kelly as a racing motorist, and Big Shot as his earnest admirer. But they did not talk about racing very much. During those years. Kelly worked hard. As though inspired by the teach- ing Jack Westcott had given him, he piloted car after car to victory until his reputation was second to none through- out America. Manufacturers sought him out and offered him gigantic fees to race their cars for them, knowing that in Kelly's hands they would most certainly win. And Kelly took the big fees and had the time of his life. He did his duty to Big Shot all right. Everywhere they went. Kelly dug up the finest tutor in town and saw to it that Big Shot had a good education. Schooling done, they would go down to die repair pits together, and tune up whatever car Kelly was running in that day's race. It was a great life ! At last came Big Shot's sixteenth birthday. By then he had acquired sufficient book-learning to ensure that May 6th, 1933. BOY'S CINEMA he would not disgrace himself anywhere' he went. In addition he knew the inside of racing cars like he knew the inside of his own pockets. He was a keen-looking lad, with bright, clear eyes and a healthy ambi- tion to get on. Kelly, twenty years older, was a broad-shouldered, genial, young-looking sort of tough with a shock of hair that never seemed to stay in its place. He and Big Shot had a party that day. and he spoke to Big Shot seriously. "Son," he said, "you are now sixteen. and I reckon you're slick enough to start pulling down a weekly pay-roll. Got any ideas what you want to be?" "Nope," said Big Shot, "Got any ideas yourself ?" Kelly thrust back his hair and scratched the back of his head all in one movement. "Well, as I look at things, you're a nifty mechanic," he said, "and you can drive a car like you was on your two legs. Don't that suggest anything?" Big Shot frowned and looked worried. Into his mind's eye came the picture of a car skidding wildly on the banking at Bridgeport, then hurtling out. of sight into the field beyond. Involuntarily he shivered. "I'm not going into racing, Kelly," he said. "I reckon " Kelly, staring at him aghast, nearly exploded. "Not going into racing?" he re- peated. "But it's in your blood. Your father was a racer, and before him your grandfather broke records on the first transcontinental railroads. The whole family of Westcott has thrived on speed." Ho broke into a grin. "All right. I'm a sap. That joke certainly took me in." Big Shot faced him stubbornly. "It ain't a joke, Kelly," he said. "I —well—I ain't int'rested in racing, I guess." Kelly's face was grave. He frowned, not understanding. "But, say, kid, you love oars," he protested. "Look at the way you doctored that old Clovis after she'd used up her oil and burnt out a couple of big-ends. You'd think she had a new engine afterwards." Big Shot hung his head. "I'm darned sorry, Kelly." he said. "I like being a mechanic, but racing's out for me. I'm—afraid." Kelly didn't laugh at him, or look at him with contempt, like many another man would have done. He just nodded slowly, sympathetically. "Like to tell me about it?" he asked gently. "Yeah." Big Shot looked at Kelly seriously. "Maybe you'll think I'm a rat, but somehow I think you'll under- stand. I wanted to race until that time dad crashed. Then—oh, I don't know. I can always see the picture of him and you going over. I can't get it out of my mind. Every time I drive a. car along a road at twenty, something tells me I shall go the same way if I take to the tracks. And I can't face it, Kelly —I can't ! I'm scared !" "Poor kid!" muttered Kelly sadly. He didn't condemn. He knew just how Big Shot felt. He himself had felt exactly the same way for a while, but he had been able to get his nerve back. In Big Shot's case it was different. His father's death hud occurred at that bad age of twelve when impressions that get into a boy's mind often stick for a lifetime. Kelly decided that the best tiling he could do was to drop the subject. "All right, son," he said. "There's Every Tuesday plenty of other things you can do. For ttie time being you win be employed officially as my fixer; meanwhih you can think things over. There's no hurry." They never spoke of it again. The party celebrating Big Shot's birthday went on until far into the night. They were again at Bridgeport at the time—in one of the hotels then—- and the whole of the track staff had turned up. It was well past two in the morning before Kelly went to bed. By then he was somewhat the worse for wear. One of the boys had brought along a bottle of fiery Allegheny whisky, and it had put Kelly clean off his feet. He had to be up early the next day, too! He woke to the alarm clock, and raised a splitting head from the pillow. With a groan he got out of bed, filled the wash-basin with cold water, and dipped his unruly mop below the sur- face. It didn't do much good. There was a singing in his ears, and a dozen ham- mers seemed to be beating a tattoo on his nerve-centres. He rang for his room-waiter. "Say, I've got a whale of a head," he said. "Fix me something good to get rid of it." "Sure," said the room-waiter. "I know the very thing. Be back in a few minutes." He went away, to'return with a glass- ful of colourless liquid that looked harmless enough. Kelly tossed it down, and spluttered. "Gosh !" he roared. "What in blazes was that?" "Absinthe," said the room-waiter with a grin. "The best snifter going. In half an hour you'll be as fresh as a daisy." Apparently the room-waiter had never seen a daisy that was fresh, because half an hour later Kelly was feeling worse. What was more, he was a bit unsteady on his legs. However, unsteady or no, he was entered in the day's race, and would have to go through with it. He daren't let his boss down; if he did, it would finish him for all time. He took a cab to the track, and some- how managed to reach the pits. By then he was seeing two of nearly every- thing, and had to hold on to things to keep himself upright. The pit-foreman saw him, and went across. "What's the matter, Kelly?" he asked. "Feeling queer?" Then he caught a whiff of Kelly's breath. "Hey, you'd better come with me," he finished. "We get enough accidents when everyone's sober without asking for more the other way." It finished Kelly. The pit-foreman took him before the track-manager, and the track-manager had him brought up before the stewards. There was a short and sharp meeting, and Kelly went away with a piece of paper in his hand. The piece of paper told him that he was barred from all tracks controlled \>\ the Eastern States' Racing Committee. He got back to the hotel a while later, and told Big Shot what had hap- pened. Big Shot, far from being re- proachful, was almost glad. "What do we do next?" he nsked. Kelly shoved his mop of hair back. "Well, there's plenty of tracks in the West," he paid, "so West we'll go. Sorry, Big Shot, but racing's all I know about, and we must live. Let's start packing. We set out to-morrow morning."