Hank entered the Indianapolis race with a new fuel in his racer--and wound up twenty centuries in the past!
It happened all on account of Futsy Dugan. Futsy was one of those guys who's always futsing around with this, that and the other thing. If he wasn't trying to invent a new kind of rocket racer, then he was almost blowing all us out of house, home and happiness with a new mixture of oil for my racing buggy. As a matter of fact, that's just what he was doing when all this happened.
You see, I'm Hank Conners. You must've heard about me. I'm one of them auto-racers you see shooting abound a track like as if they was nuts. Some of the guys in the know say as how I'm one of the best. Maybe I am.
Anyhow, I was born with a tire-wrench in one hand, an oil-pump handle in the other and the smell of exhaust gas in my nose. On account of my old man was the Billy Conners, grand old man of the auto-racers, and you heard of him! Him and my mother used to go barnstorming around the fairs for their living. And I was born one day right after my mother had cracked her bus up in a bad spill.
But getting back to Futsy --He was my boss mechanic and a better guy never walked the earth. What he didn't know about automobiles in general --and my Diesel auto-racer in particular --just wasn't worth knowing.
I don't know where he found the time to do it--but Futsy read a book, a chemistry book. And it was all about how you put this kind of stinky stuff in that kind of stinky stuff and you got another kind of stinky stuff. Anyhow, Futsy said as how he was sure he could get an oil mixture that'd do wonders with my Diesel.
It did! Futsy had no idea about the kind of wonders it was going to do. Maybe he might have gotten a good idea if he knew what happened to all the wrenches and bolts and a lot of other auto equipment that began to disappear just when he started to work on his new oil-mixture. Futsy blamed it onto thieves and let it go at that on account of he was too busy with his oil-mixture experiments to worry about it. But it was me that shelled out the dough for all that stuff and I was plenty het up about it. I even socked a big roustabout at the track on account of he called me a liar when I accused him of heisting all that stuff.
Anyhow, it all happened one day when we was down at the Indianapolis brick-track for one of the biggest races of the year. My little Diesel job was all tuned up and running as sweet as a green-grass filly just out of the feed-box. We was cooking with good old oil, but Futsy says as how he'd got the formula for the new oil all worked out and he'd made up a big batch of it for us to use in the race. Me, I don't go for that new-fangled stuff and I tried to rule it out. But Futsy, he was so het up about what his new oil could do, he insisted almost with tears in his eyes that we try the stuff out at least.
"Jus' gimme one break, Hank!" he says.
"Suppose it don't work!" I says.
"It will!" Futsy insists.
|Publisher:||eStar Books LLC|
|Sold by:||Barnes & Noble|
|File size:||362 KB|