“A new kind of fuel,” Johnny whispered to himself. “That’s what he said. More foot pounds of energy than any other fuel. Wonder what it could be?”
At a rather late hour that same afternoon, Jensie and Ballard sat on the trunk of a fallen tree. They were both deliciously weary. All day they had tramped the hillsides. The dry leaves had rustled beneath their feet. From time to time beechnuts had come showering down upon them. At other times too, the deep baying of Ballard’s big red hound had told them of squirrels up a tree. It had been grand.
Now they could see the sun casting long mountain shadows over the valley far below. At their side rested six red squirrels and one big fat striped coon. Yes, it had been glorious. Garbed in her knickers and russet red sweater, the girl seemed a part of it all.
“Listen!” Ballard exclaimed quite suddenly. “Bees!”
Jensie listened but heard nothing. The sharp-eared boy was not long in pointing out a huge, hollow chestnut tree. Some thirty feet from the ground Jensie caught sight of a faint, wavering line.
“It’s a bee tree!” Ballard was excited. “A big swarm. Hundred pounds of honey, mebby two hundred. Monday I’ll come up and cut it down.”
“Monday, Ballard?” There was a power of suggestion in the girl’s tone.
Ballard made no reply. His face, as he looked away at the hills was a study.
“Ballard,” the girl’s voice was low and husky, “we’ve been to school together all our lives. We belong to the mountains, you and I. And because we belong, we have to do all we can for the mountains.
“Yesterday, I saw the coach.” Ballard shifted uneasily. “I asked if he’d take you back on the team. He said, ‘Ballard’s never been off the team.’”
The girl paused. Ballard’s hand clutched at the log. His lips moved. He did not speak.
“The coach said,” Jensie went on after a time, “that he understood the code of the mountains. He’s lived down here. But he says the code of the mountains is not the code of Hillcrest. He said that people who call other folks vile names don’t have to be killed for it. In time they kill themselves. They get to talking out real loud and then they lose all their friends. After that they may not be dead but they might as well be.”
Once again the girl paused. The shadows in the valley had grown longer. All the meadow lands were in the shadows now.
“Ballard,” she began again, “we mountain folks can’t be quitters. I quit once. Daddy sent me away to school. I couldn’t take it. I came home. I—I’ve always been sorry for that.
“But you, Ballard,” she touched his hand, “you are a boy. Boys are strong, you can’t quit. It’s for the mountains, Ballard, and for your future, all the glorious, golden days that lie ahead.
“I—I think we better go down now.” She took up her gun. The big red hound sprang to his feet. They were off.
Their way home led past Cousin Bill’s store. Johnny sat on the bench beside the door. He was whittling and talking to old Noah Pennington.
“Hello, Johnny,” Jensie greeted. “When are we going back?”
“Any time you say. How about nine tomorrow morning?”
“Tha—that will be fine, Johnny. Won’t it?” The girl turned to Ballard.
“I—I—yes, I suppose so,” Ballard stammered.
“Will you come to my house or shall we pick you up at the rim where we dropped you last night?” Jensie asked cheerfully.
“I’ll be at the rim, Jensie.”
“All right. We’ll be going on down. Come and see me, Johnny.”
“See you at nine,” Johnny grinned happily.
“Leave it to the women,” Johnny murmured when they were out of ear-shot.
“Yes,” old Noah Pennington, who sat at his side, agreed. “Leave it to the women. Be a lot sorrier times in this here world if it weren’t fer the women folks.”
The shadows of night had fallen when the three wanderers, Jensie, Johnny, and Ballard in their car came to a gliding stop before the Blue Moon.
The door stood half open. A mellow glow of light shone at their feet as they hopped out. From within came the murmur of voices and low laughter.
“The old Blue Moon is still doing fine,” Johnny smiled happily. “Come on in and have a snack.”
No sooner had the door framed their faces than a voice shouted: “Here’s Old Kentucky! Kentucky and that mountain gal. Come on, Old Kentucky, give us a tune.”
At once the crowd, composed of all the team and many of their friends, was on its feet and cheering huskily.
Seizing his companions, Johnny pushed them to the front. Picking up Jensie as if she were a sack of sugar, he set her down on the counter, then thrust a banjo in her hands as he whispered, “Do your durndest. Nothing could be better than this.” She flashed him an understanding smile. Then, after motioning Ballard to a place by her side, she began thrumming the chords, and “Old Kentucky Home” came whispering through the room.
Greeted by abundant applause, the two young Kentuckians played and sang their way through a half score of melodious mountain tunes into the very hearts of their listeners.
Then, of a sudden, Jensie struck her banjo a thwack. She ran her fingers across the strings to begin “Roll, Jordan, Roll! Roll, Jordan, Roll! Oh! Oh! Oh! I want to go there, to hear old Jordan roll.”
Instantly every boy and girl in the room was on his feet and singing. How the rafters of the old Blue Moon rang.
Song followed song. Quaint, beautiful, melodious negro minstrels that fitted the closing of the Sabbath day, they filled the minds of happy, carefree youth with a mellow joy that is experienced oh, so seldom, in a long, long life.
“They’re a wonderful bunch,” Johnny said huskily as he helped Jensie into the car an hour later. “A wonderful, wonderful bunch of fellows. Next Saturday they will go out on the field and romp all over it to the tune of a dozen touchdowns. And already, thank God, they’ve forgotten Kentucky’s blunder that cost them a game.”
“Old Kentucky will be the hero of the hour next Saturday, you’ll see,” Jensie exulted. “Kentucky! My Kentucky forever!”
That night Johnny sat long musing beside the fire. Surely there were matters enough to occupy his thoughts. Kentucky was back. These mountain people had a way of winning their way into people’s hearts. He was glad of that. But what of the games that were to come? Could this mountain boy control his hot temper when things went wrong? He wondered and shuddered a little.
He thought of the bear and laughed. The bear was dead all right. He had told Lige Fields about that explosion in the cave. Lige was short of fresh meat. To a Kentucky mountain man, nothing is better than a good juicy bear steak. He had found the bear with his head blown clean off.
“Powerful stuff, liquid air and carbon,” the boy said to himself. He had some of the bear steak in his car. They’d have it for dinner in the back room of the Blue Moon tomorrow. He’d invite Coach Dizney and a few of the boys.
He thought of Old Mose and his mule, thought too of the “ornery no-count” Blinkey Bill who planned to beat Mose out of his coal mine.
“He said we might fix up a little bolt of lightning out of the blue,” Johnny murmured. He was thinking now of Donald Day. Queer sort of fellow, Donald was, mighty fine too. He wondered how a fellow’d go about manufacturing a “bolt from the blue.” He’d like to be around when it happened, would too if it were possible. He could steal away down there in the middle of the week. Artie Stark would manage the Blue Moon in his absence. Plenty of boys needed work.
Another thing he meant to look into. He wanted to visit that young aviator down there in the Kentucky valley. What kind of a motor could he be building? Johnny was interested in all sorts of mechanical contraptions. He had once owned a car that ran on dust, just ordinary coal dust.
“Couldn’t be that,” he whispered to himself. “Couldn’t—”
Johnny was growing drowsy. But now, of a sudden, he was wide awake. The latch clicked. There came the sound of shuffling feet. Johnny caught sight of a shadowy figure.
“Pant,” he called. “Panther Eye, is that you?”
“Yes, Johnny,” the strange fellow’s voice was low. “Yes, it’s me. But don’t talk so loud Johnny, not quite so loud.”
As on those other occasions, Johnny prepared a small feast for his wandering friend. Tonight, instead of talking, he sat silently watching until the last bite was gone. Then he said quite suddenly:
“Did he find you?” Johnny eyed Pant eagerly.
“Who find me?” Pant stared.
“Have you forgotten?” Johnny asked in surprise. “The shadow. That giant with a hooked nose.”
“Did you see it?” It was Pant’s turn to be surprised.
“I’ll say I saw it. Gives me the creeps just thinking about it now.”
“No-o,” Pant said slowly, “he hasn’t found me, not—not yet.”
Pant dropped into a chair. At once his face became a mask. Only the gleam of his curious pink eyes, told that he was alive. Johnny knew the meaning of this, Pant, like a turtle, had withdrawn into his shell. Johnny settled into his place to take up a pencil and begin tracing geometric figures on a square of paper.
Pant was first to break the long silence that followed. When he did speak it was as if the many hours that had passed since their last meeting had not been.
“You’ll be surprised, Johnny,” he said as an amused smile played about the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps you won’t believe what I tell you—but I’ve got to finish that thing I was telling you.”
“Go on,” Johnny urged.
“Well, we went into that cave, that mysterious girl that may have been white. I don’t know about that—
“We hadn’t been in there ten minutes when we heard a shuffling sound by the cave’s entrance and what do you think?” Pant paused to stare at a spot on the wall. “What could you expect? Almost anything. What was it but that troop of giant baboons!” Once again Pant paused.
Involuntarily Johnny allowed his eyes to stray to the window shade. No shadow there tonight. Even the tree branches were still.
“Well, sir,” Pant gave vent to a low chuckle, “there we were, that girl and I crowded way back in the cave. And there were the baboons. They came shuffling in, like thirty or forty boys playing hooky from school. And silent! Say! I didn’t suppose any wild creature except maybe a tiger could be that quiet.
“The girl was scared. Plumb scared to death. As she crowded close to me, I could feel her heart beat madly like it might burst. Surprised me that did, because these natives all know a baboon won’t hurt you. Made me think she was all white. Suppose she was, Johnny?”
“Don’t you know? Didn’t you find out?” Johnny asked in surprise.
“No—I—but where was I?” Pant broke off. “Oh, yes! That wasn’t all, not half, Johnny. You won’t believe it but I’m going to tell you just the same. The baboons hadn’t much more than got good and settled, when there came another quick shuffle outside the cave and in popped—who do you think?” Pant drew in a quick breath. “That whole band of wild men.”
“Must have been a large cave.”
“It was!” Pant exclaimed. “But not big enough for all that outfit, anyway not if that something strange that was after them decided to come in too.
“Well,” Pant went on after a pause, “the strange thing didn’t come. Perhaps there wasn’t anything strange. Maybe these wild fellows just imagined it. But there were baboons and wild men and that girl and I—which was a whole lot too many. The baboons kept crowding back, back, back, until one big fellow was square against my side and that girl between me and the rocky wall of the cave. And all the time that bunch of huge baboons, scared stiff by the wild men, who are always hunting them, crowding more and more until I was sure we’d be crushed.
“Something had to be done, Johnny, and I did it. I had a short hunting knife in my belt. Getting a good grip on it I lifted it high to bring it down square between that nearest baboon’s shoulder blades. And then—” Pant broke off to indulge in a prolonged reminiscent chuckle.
“Come on,” Johnny urged, “you’ll see that shadow again.”
“No, I—well—to tell the truth, Johnny, there’s little left to tell. That baboon let out a most terrific roar. After that there was noise, dust and confusion. That lasted three full minutes I guess, and after that, believe it or not, they were gone, baboons, wild men, and all. That cave was as silent as a tomb.
“I was sorry about that baboon,” Pant went on after a moment. “I never like to hurt any living creature. But what else could I do?”
“N—nothing,” Johnny shook himself. Had he been listening to a fairy story or a real adventure?
“We waited an hour, that girl and I,” Pant continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “After that we crept out into the bright sunlight. We looked about. There was no one to be seen, not even a baboon. You better believe me we got out of there quick.
“Well—” Pant stretched his long legs, “I found that river again. Then I knew where I was.”
“And the girl?” Johnny breathed softly.
“She had no idea where we were. And I feel quite sure—” Pant paused to consider, “yes, I’m certain she had no idea what I was up to. She followed me as she might have followed that big man with a hooked nose, had he given her the chance, followed because there was nothing else to do.
“I kept getting more and more signs. A fallen tree, a particular cluster of hanging vines I’d noticed before, a tumble-down native hut, all these told me I was on the right track.
“Just a little before sunset, I came to a spot I was sure of. It was not a hundred yards from that clearing, the picture clearing, you know.”
“Yes, the pasture, the cattle, the gem of a cottage,” Johnny supplemented.
“And the girl lost out of it,” Pant broke in. “I was going to put her back into the picture. I DID put her back,” there was a note of triumph in Pant’s voice. “I stopped dead in my tracks, pushed the girl on before me, then pointed straight ahead.
“At first she did not seem to understand, just stood there staring. In the end, I’m sure she only half understood, for she seemed to go reluctantly.
“I watched her until she was ready to part the branches that were to give her a glimpse of home, then I ducked.
“I can hide, Johnny, hide anywhere, always could. It’s a gift. I wasn’t a minute too soon, for I was scarcely under cover when she let out a scream.”
“A scream?”
“Sure! One wild scream of pure joy. She had seen her home. Probably up to that moment, she had never hoped to see it again. Who wouldn’t scream?
“Then,” Pant indulged in a broad grin, “what do you suppose she did after that?”
“Went down through the jungle like a scared rabbit,” suggested Johnny.
“No. You’re wrong,” Pant heaved a sigh. “She stood there for a moment. Then she turned and started back. Looking for me—wouldn’t you say?”
“Sure would.”
“But she didn’t find me,” Pant added dryly. “You bet she didn’t. I can hide, you know that, Johnny. That’s one time I did a good job of hiding.”
“Why?” Johnny stared.
“Well, you know, Johnny,” Pant replied slowly, “you can never tell what a lady will do when she discovers quite suddenly that you’ve done her a very good turn. You can’t now, can you, Johnny?”
“No, you can’t,” Johnny laughed. “You really can not. I’ve known them to throw their arms about their benefactor and—”
“Kiss him,” Pant made a face. “And that, Johnny, would have been horrible!”
“I don’t know,” Johnny said slowly. “That’s purely a matter of taste. Anyway, you were not quite fair to her. You had saved her from slavery, worse than death. You didn’t even give her a chance to thank you.”
“I thought of that, Johnny. Went back to the edge of the clearing the very next day. Had some notion of showing myself. But I didn’t—” Pant broke off abruptly.
“Why?”
“The picture was there, Johnny, pasture, cattle, house and even the girl. There was one slight change. A man sat before the cabin, a tall, thin man in a white suit. Across his knees lay a long-barreled rifle. How that barrel did gleam in the sun! So-o, Johnny, I didn’t go down.”
“He wasn’t looking for you.”
“Probably not. But people do sometimes make mistakes. And really, it didn’t matter.”
This was one time when Pant was mistaken, more mistaken than he could imagine. It did matter. It mattered a great deal.
“Well, I’ll be going, Johnny,” Pant stood up.
“What’s the hurry, Pant? No shadows tonight!”
“There might be, Johnny, you never can tell. Good-night, Johnny.” He was gone.
“The shadow of a glorious past,” Johnny murmured low.
The look of grim determination on Ballard’s face as he took up practice next day was both inspiring and disturbing to his good friend, Red Dynamite, who, by this time had come to love the Kentucky boy as he might a younger brother.
“Steady, son,” he warned as Ballard overran three long forward passes in a row. “Head work counts more than footwork.”
Ballard quieted down. For a good hour and a half after that, the work of run-and-pass, pass-pass-and-run, then pass again went on without a pause.
“There!” Dynamite exclaimed at last, “That should do for one day. Come on over to the Blue Moon for a hot chocolate malted.”
Kentucky dropped in beside him. Together they tramped from the practice field.
“You know,” Dynamite said soberly, “when you’ve been around a place like this long as I have you get to love it. Every foot of ground, every stick and brick, every man and woman comes to mean something to you. They give you a chance here. Suppose I could go to one of those big schools? Not a chance! But here, here I sit and listen to the hiss of steam in the old boiler room. Every fifteen minutes I hop up to feed in some coal and prod the fires. Every day I eat dust and breathe a little smoke while I drag the ashes out. That’s all I have to do and that gets me a college education. By and by, a degree.
“And all the time,” he drew in a long, deep breath, “all the time I’m living. Living grand, Kentucky, better than I may ever live again. You’ll come to love it too, Kentucky. You’ll want to fight and fight and fight for old Hillcrest.
“Here’s the Blue Moon,” he exclaimed as if afraid he had been guilty of preaching. “Fill ’em up, Artie!” he held two hands wide apart. “Two big long ones. Double malt and triple chocolate, steaming hot.”
“Two long ones coming up,” Artie grinned broadly. “How’s Kentucky coming on?”
“Fine!” Dynamite banged the table with his huge fist, then made the sound of wind whistling through his teeth. “Just watch us next Saturday! I smack ’em down and Kentucky goes through for a touchdown. Score’ll be about thirty-one to nothing I’d say.”
But would it? As Dynamite watched the Kentucky boy practice, each day he seemed to see him growing slimmer, more hollow-eyed and nervous. Nor was he the only one who watched. Kenneth Roberts the English professor was a real fellow. He knew boys as well as English. He had written three books for boys, real thrillers that clicked. When on Thursday, Kentucky sitting on the front seat slept all the way through his class, English B-3, he asked the boy to remain after class.
“Ballard,” he said without a smile, “you slept through my class.”
“I—I’m sorry,” Ballard blushed.
“A class room,” the teacher’s voice took on a mellow, kindly note, “is a poor place to sleep. You’ve been practicing too hard and too long. You’ll defeat yourself. I want you to do three things, stop practicing, sleep twelve hours tonight, cut all your classes tomorrow. I’ll fix it up about the classes. We—we’re watching you, boy. We’re pulling for you, son, and—and praying for you.”
“Than—” the boy’s chin quivered, “thanks awfully. I—I’ll do whatever you say.”
It is said there is power in prayer. If this is true the good professor’s prayers were not in vain. Hillcrest had never witnessed such a game of football as was played on their grid-iron the next sunny Saturday afternoon.
As they watched, it seemed that their own team consisted of but two men. One had been dubbed Old Kentucky, the other Red Dynamite. This, of course, was not true. There were eleven men on the team. On the defensive, blocking and tackling, they were all one. Even on the offensive, in his own quiet way, each man did his full share.
Even so, as the fans watched, they saw again and again a strapping fellow in red jersey break through the opponent’s line to go flaming down the field. At once the cry arose:
“Dy-na-mite! Dy-na-mite! Red! Red! Red! Dy-na-mite!” The rooters came in time to turn that cry into a series of explosions, like the clash and clatter of a front-line battle.
But always, with a pigskin tucked in the hollow of his arm, there followed a slender torch of red. And this was Old Kentucky.
As they advanced down the field, Dynamite, with uncanny wisdom, picked the onrushing opponents one by one. Those who remained, sprang all in vain at the wisp of red that, like a flaming cardinal, went fluttering past them to a touchdown.
Twice this unusual pair achieved a run of sixty yards to a touchdown. When the game was over, the score stood one point below Dave’s prophecy: 30-0.
“You sure done uncommon good today!” Johnny exclaimed dropping into a slow Kentucky drawl as Ballard entered the Blue Moon.
It was closing time. The lights were low. The fire in the big stove gave forth an inviting mellow glow. The mountain boy dropped silently into a chair, stretched his feet straight out before him, then, eyes half closed, sat there silent while the clock ticked off a full quarter hour.
“Yes,” he roused at last, “that’s what old Noah Pennington would call a ‘right smart of a ball game.’ But, do you know, Johnny, I don’t think I’ll ever do my part as well again.”
“Probably you’re right,” Johnny agreed, understanding on the instant. “There are times in all our lives when some special thing gives us a mighty push and we climb to heights we may never hope to reach again.
“But, Ballard, old boy,” he hastened to add, “you’ll do well enough. Now you’ve got going, nothing can stop you. For once Hillcrest has a winning team and I’m glad, mighty glad.”
“Tomorrow I’m coming back to work here in the Blue Moon,” Ballard said quietly.
“Artie Stark has done enough for me. Every fellow’s got to make his own way,” he continued.
“All right, Ballard,” Johnny’s tone was as quiet as the other boy’s, but he felt a surge of warmth work its way through his being. He loved every boy who took his place in life’s battle-line prepared to do his part.
“You’ll be a lot of help, Ballard,” there was real enthusiasm in his voice. “You’ll be popular. That will help the Blue Moon.”
“I—I’m glad you think so, Johnny,” there was a wealth of gratitude in the mountain boy’s tone.
On the following Monday evening a meeting of the team was called by Coach Dizney. When they gathered in the back room of the Blue Moon, the players found a blackboard hung upon the wall. Lines, circles, and arrows had been drawn upon the board.
“Next Saturday, as you all know,” the coach began, “we are to play Pitt Tech. And I’m giving you fair warning that we are up against a stiff proposition. Like the other teams we’ve played, they’re heavier than you are, ten or twelve pounds to the man. Worse than that they are fiends at breaking up forward passes. I’ve looked up their record for this year.
“So,” he paused, “so what shall we do?”
“New plays,” suggested Stagger Weed, the center.
“That’s it,” the coach smiled. “Newer, bigger, and better plays and trickier ones. Now here,” he turned to the board, “here is a play that’s a humdinger if you boys have the brains and the nerve to carry it through.”
“Yeah brains,” Punch Dickman laughed, “we check them in the class room before we pass out.”
“You better bring them along next Saturday,” the coach snapped back.
“Now this,” he began once more, “as you will see, as far as the line goes, is a balanced formation. The right half is behind his own tackle, full-back behind right guard two yards from line of scrimmage and left half three yards back behind center. Quarter is in regular position.
“Now,” he drew in a long breath, “the ball goes back to quarter. Right end and right tackle plunge ahead prepared to block any interference. The right half and center drop in to fill these places, to prevent a break through the line. The left half-back goes out about five steps directly to the right, then turns and starts back.
“Are you following me?” He did not wait for a reply. “When the quarter gets the ball he immediately faces left and the left end comes round like an end-around play. The quarter fakes giving him the ball but hugs it tightly to his noble breast. When the Pitt line has swung round after our left end, the quarter leaps to position and laterals the ball to Old Kentucky.”
“And Old Kentucky goes racing forward to a touchdown,” Rabbit Jones the right half breathed. “How sweet!”
“It’s a keen play,” Red Dynamite exclaimed. “If we only know it well enough.”
“You’re going to know it well enough!” the coach struck the table with his fist. “That one and two or three more as hard to learn and as swell to play, if only you know how. Will you do it?”
“Yea—yea—yea—” they exclaimed in unison.
“We’ve just got to do it!” Stagger said with solemn emphasis.
“And now the next play,” the coach wiped the board clean, drew more circles then started explaining a second trick performance.
All that week, sweating and toiling, working the old beans overtime, the team went through the business of acting out plays that in the beginning were confusing but in the end as natural and clear as the bright light of day.
More than once, during those gruelling hours as Johnny stood beside him watching, the coach turned to him with a smile to exclaim low:
“Good boy, Johnny! You sure found us a player. I never saw anything like the way that Kentucky boy takes in those new plays. Quick as a whip too! I suppose it’s his Kentucky breeding.”
“Sure is,” Johnny grinned. “There are times down there in the mountains when there are just two classes of people. The quick and the dead. The quick one gets his gun out from under his coat, the other just naturally goes to the cemetery. Kentucky’s grandfather was killed in a feud. His father had a silk handkerchief drawn through his chest once, where a bullet had gone first.”
“Whew!” the coach whistled, “No wonder he’s quick!”
Strangely enough, despite the coach’s warning, apparently disregarding all their trick plays, Dynamite, who was captain and called the plays, started the game with a series of forward passes. The first two were blocked. The third, almost a lateral pass, was good for a gain of five yards.
They punted, held the opposing team to a single first down, then, as the opposing team punted, began again with forward passes. The second of these was intercepted and, but for a lightning-like tackle by Old Kentucky—which brought the spectators to their feet—might have resulted in disaster.
“What’s the good?” Stagger grumbled. “Lose our shirt, first thing we know.” Dynamite made no reply.
Once again as they came into possession of the ball, the opposing team failed to gain. They tried for a field goal at forty yards. No good.
Hillcrest’s ball on their own twenty-yard line. Once more a pass. This time, by great good fortune, it was received by Dynamite who blasted his way down to the enemy’s forty-five-yard line.
After that more passes. Scarcely was the Hillcrest team in a huddle when a certain half-back began shouting: “Pass! Pass!”
Then something strange and startling happened. The team lined up and, as the ball was snapped, Kentucky, Artie Stark and Tony Blazes raced to receiving positions. The enemy, eager to block or intercept a pass swarmed after them.
But the ball was not passed. Just as Punch, the full-back, posed the ball for the throw, like a blackbird after a cherry, Dynamite seized it from behind, went sweeping away around left end which was all but deserted, bumped squarely into one lonesome Pitt player, sent him sprawling and romped away to a touchdown.
“Did you see that?” a letter-man of other days exclaimed. “The old Statue of Liberty play. And gloriously executed!”
“Glorious!” echoed his companions. “Say! These boys are making football history! And I’m told that more than half of them are working their way. Quite wonderful!”
“Wonderful and terrible,” was the other’s reply. “We old grads ought at least to furnish a training table, where they could eat without cost during the season anyway.”
The score, after the kick, stood 7-0. The boys were jubilant. They were playing a supposedly superior team and beating them.
That was the end to forward passes. All the passes that had gone before were in preparation for this one grand stroke. Now it should be something else.
The next play they tried was too difficult. Artie Stark was smeared for a loss of three yards. Worse still the ball bounced from his grasp and was pounced upon by the enemy.
After that, despite the team’s heroic efforts to block them, their heavy weight enemies battered their way to a touchdown. The kick was good. The first half ended a tie.
The Hillcrest team received the ball at the start of the second half. Punch Dickman carried it back to his own forty-yard line. When the team went into a huddle, Dynamite hissed two words that made them gasp: “Modified suicide!” This was all he said. It was enough. Every boy’s nerves tingled as they lined up for the play. It was a strange formation, five men to right of center, one, the end, at the left. Kentucky was in his usual position only two yards back. Rabbit Jones, the other half-back, was thirty yards out from the end of the line. Center and full-back crouched behind the line. Signals were to be called on this play.
Artie Stark was calling, “Six—ten—seven—ten—”
Dynamite was listening. Stagger Weed, big, a little too fat and very obviously the center, moved uneasily, but no one noticed this. As the last “ten” was called, Dynamite stepped in behind Stagger’s great bulk. Rabbit Jones moved forward to the line of scrimmage. Someone from the bleachers roared, “Forward pass!” He was right, more right than he knew.
The eyes of the opposing back field were on Rabbit Jones. “Six—seven—nine—eleven” Artie droned the numbers. The ball was snapped. It went to Punch, the full-back. He leaped to the right, took three backward steps, then threw the ball high and far, not to the right, but to the left. Not to Rabbit Jones, but to Stagger, the center. Stagger gathered the ball to his ample bosom then went lumbering like a freight train toward the distant goal. And why not? There was no one to stop him.
Then such a roar as went up from the Pitt side of the bleachers. How the Pitt team crowded around the referee.
“He’s their center!” they protested. “Their center! The center is not eligible to receive the ball.”
“You’re all wet,” was the good natured referee’s reply. “When the ball was snapped, there was no player at the left of center. That made him left end. And so-o—”
He did not finish. There was no need. The disconsolate Pitt players, wandered back to the line.
The kick was good. “Fourteen to seven,” Dynamite exulted. “If only we can hold it. And we must!”
They did not hold it, at least not for long. There is something about being totally deceived, that makes men see red. The Pitt men had been thoroughly tricked. They saw red, very red indeed. In the next five minutes they took the ball from Hillcrest, made three first downs, threw a long forward pass, then went over the line. The kick, however, went wild. They were still beaten unless—
The whistle blew for the end of the third quarter.
“We’ve got to hold ’em!” Dynamite muttered to Kentucky as they lay on the grass. “We’ve just got to.”
“Best way to do that is to better our lead,” was Kentucky’s courageous reply. “Remember how we went through left tackle?”
“Sure.”
“Try it again.”
Dynamite did try it again and with results he could not foresee.
The very first time Kentucky took the ball and Dynamite blasted him a trail, they went clean through the defense line of the enemy and were away. Then the fighting flight was on. Dynamite hit a husky opponent and sent him spinning. A second man appeared on the horizon. Dynamite took him on. He was big and powerful. Perhaps he fouled by holding, Dynamite did not quite know. At any rate they went down in a heap and Kentucky, the slim, fast-footed half-back sped on.
A vast shadow loomed before him—the opposing team’s safety man. Grinning, Kentucky sprang forward to offer him the ball.
Perhaps the giant had heard of this trick. Perhaps he was too dumb to want the ball. Whatever it may have been, he did not reach for the ball. Instead, he lammed straight at the slim youth. Kentucky was not quick enough. With an impact that could be heard all over the field, they went down in a heap. And Kentucky did not get up. Even when the referee took the ball from his hands, he did not stir. He was out for keeps.
“Poor Kentucky!” It was Jensie who spoke these words. She had seen it all and had come racing onto the field. It was she who directed the boys that picked him up, ever so gently, and carried him from the field.
Meantime the game went on. Football is the game of war. When a few wounded have been carried from the field, a battle does not stop.
It was a grim battle that followed. No one blamed that big full-back, not really, and yet—They must not win now. Pitt must not!
The crippled Hillcrest team battled hard but could not gain. They punted. Pitt carried the ball far into their territory. Two brilliantly executed passes by Pitt men brought the ball to the Hillcrest ten-yard line. One line buck and the distance to a touchdown was cut to five yards, one more line buck and a slim yard stood between Pitt and victory.
The Hillcrest bleachers were screaming: “Hold that line! Hold that line! Hold that line!” From the wall of blue on the opposite side came the words of a song: “Forward! Forward! March against the foe!”
Little more than one moment to play with the ball on Hillcrest’s one-yard line. It was a tense situation. Pitt went into a huddle, snapped out of it quickly, crouched like tigers, shuffled uneasily for ten seconds, then—the ball sped. Dynamite followed it with his eye. “There! There! There it is!” His muscles registered a sensation that may never have reached his brain.
The Pitt full-back had the ball—that same giant whose hurdling force had crushed poor, slender Kentucky. Dynamite bore him no grudge—it was all in the game. And yet—“It’s all for Old Kentucky!” he hissed as, straight as an arrow, he shot at the full-back. He struck him with the sudden, solid impact of a bullet. The ball leaped from the opponent’s hands. By some strange chance, it shot straight into the air. It came curving down into Artie Stark’s arms. Too astonished to believe in his luck, Artie started streaking down the field. Only one opponent half-heartedly followed. The moment was all for Artie. So too was the game for, a half minute after the play, the whistle blew and Hillcrest’s most exciting, most astonishing game was at an end.
Artie Stark was carried off the field in triumph. This was natural enough. Dynamite did not in the least begrudge him the honor, for had it not been his spectacular run in the last minute of the game that saved the day? How many had seen Dynamite’s wild plunge through the line, the plunge that broke up the opponent’s play? Very few. Such things are not seen. It is the lad with the long run to his credit who receives the cheers. Dynamite did not care. He did not so much as think of it. His mind was occupied with other matters. He and Johnny Thompson walked off the field together.
“Poor Kentucky,” Dynamite was saying. “He doesn’t seem to have any luck.”
“All the same,” Johnny replied quietly, “it was he who won today’s game.”
“That’s just it,” his generous hearted companion agreed. “To think of practically putting the game on ice, then being smashed up!
“I only hope,” he added soberly, “that it’s not too bad. We sure don’t get the breaks. Just when we’re all keyed up and ready to go after anything, then to lose our best man!”
“It is tough,” Johnny agreed.
“And next Saturday,” Dynamite groaned afresh, “we’re up against St. Regis, the lightest, fastest team in the Little Seven. Think what it will be with Kentucky out of the game. But then,” he sighed, “it may not be so bad.”
“You’ll get over to the infirmary and see him won’t you?” Johnny asked.
“Right away.”
“I’ll see you later,” Johnny turned to the right. “Have to get over to the Blue Moon. The place will be a wild scramble.” It was, all of that and more. Plenty of work for everyone. The Blue Moon was coming to be a huge success.