Free Babe & Me by Dan Gutman Page A

road.”
    Babe dashed into the street, with me and the sick kid’s dad right behind. There were no taxicabs waiting at the curb. Babe didn’t stand around waiting for one to show up. He just ran into the middle of the street and held up his hand so the next car would have to stop or run him over. A car screeched to a halt just before hitting him. There was a family inside.
    â€œHow much you want for your car?” Babe asked the driver.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œThat’s Babe Ruth!” a kid in the back seat shrieked.
    â€œYour car,” Babe said urgently. “Will you sell it to me for five hundred bucks?”
    â€œSure!” the driver said happily. He and his family scampered out of the car. Babe peeled off five hundreds from his wallet and gave them to the guy. We piled into the car, Babe in the driver’s seat, the sick kid’s dad next to him, and me in the back. Babe hit the gas and we roared off, leaving the family standing on the street counting the money.

    He pushed the gas pedal to the floor the whole time. He went right through all the lights, whether they were green or red. The rules of the road were for other people. I was sure this was going to be the last day of my life.
    â€œHang on!” Babe said. Then he started singing “The Sidewalks of New York” again as we screeched down the street.
    â€œWhere’s the seat belt?” I yelled as Babe careened around the corner, tossing me around like a Ping-Pong ball.
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œForget it,” I replied. I guessed they didn’t have seat belts in 1932. If we got into an accident in thisold tin can, it occurred to me, we would probably all die. The dashboard was made of steel. There were no headrests. Something told me the car was not equipped with antilock brakes or air bags.
    The sick kid’s dad told Babe what roads he should take to get to the hospital where his kid was staying.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” Babe asked the guy.
    â€œDecker,” the guy replied. “Harry Decker.”
    â€œPleased to meetcha, Pop.”
    Babe turned so he could shake hands with Decker. While they were shaking hands, the car bumped up on a curb and headed straight for a little hot dog stand on the sidewalk.
    â€œWatch out!” I screamed.
    Babe swiveled the wheel and missed taking out the hot dog stand by about three inches. The guy selling hot dogs dove out of the way to save his life.
    â€œNice slide!” Babe roared. “The Cubs oughta sign that guy up!”
    Me and Decker failed to see the humor. The hot dog guy had survived Babe’s driving. I wasn’t sure we would.
    â€œâ€˜East side, west side, all around the town…’” Babe sang.
    â€œSlow down!” Decker ordered as Babe gunned the car through the streets of Chicago.
    â€œCan’t,” Babe hollered back. “Gotta get back to Wrigley Field in time for the game.”
    â€œBabe, this is a one-way street!” I screamed.Cars were veering out of our way left and right to avoid hitting us.
    â€œI’m only goin’ one way!” Babe replied with a laugh.
    â€œWatch out for that car!” Decker shouted, putting his hands in front of his eyes.
    â€œWhat car?” Babe asked.
    â€œThe one you nearly slammed into!” I shouted.
    A lady was crossing the street about a block ahead of us. She didn’t seem to realize how fast Babe was driving and didn’t make an effort to hurry.
    â€œGet a load of that sweet patootie!” Babe whistled. “She is one red-hot mama! Hey beautiful!”
    â€œKeep your eyes on the road!” I shrieked as the lady scampered out of the way.
    I was sure this was going to be the last day of my life. Just like Babe hit big, missed big, and ate big, he drove big too. He was fearless. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor all the time. He didn’t even seem to realize he could tap it gently when he wanted to go slower. He went