Four hours Johnny worked at top speed. Dishing up ice cream, pouring out steaming hot chocolate, slicing buns for hot dogs, directing his three helpers, he found little time for thinking. When, however, the last straggler had wandered through the open door and Aunt Mandy had said, “If you all don ob-ject, I’ll be agoin’ on home,” Johnny found time to think of many things. As his eyes moved swiftly over the place, taking in his three candy cases, all but emptied in a single evening, as they rested on the polished counter and the shining table, a feeling of joy and pride swept over him. He had said to the hostile world, “Here I am, ready for work. Shove over. Make me a place.” The world had answered, “There is no place.” He had replied, “O. K. then I’ll make myself a place.”
He had done just that. The Blue Moon was a success, would be more and more of a success in the months to come. It had become an institution, and part of old Hillcrest. Yes, he, Johnny Thompson, was a part of something big and fine. It was wonderful, this association with some of the finest young people in the world.
“I made a place,” he whispered proudly. “A place for myself and Kentucky.”
Kentucky, the name awakened him. How was Kentucky? He must know. Slamming the stove drafts shut, snapping off the lights, twirling the key in the door, he was away to the heating plant, hoping to find Dynamite.
He was not disappointed. “It might be worse,” the big boy said soberly. “General shock and one cracked rib. The doc has him all taped up. Sure can’t play next Saturday.
“That,” he added slowly, “is not so bad. We can afford to take one more licking. But when it comes to week after next, when we go up against our ancient rival, Naperville, for that final game of the season, and, like as not, for the championship, then, if Kentucky’s out for good, it’s going to be just too bad!”
“We’ll do the best we can for him,” said Johnny. “And here’s hoping the best is good enough.”
Dynamite’s dire prophecy regarding the St. Regis game was not without foundation. At the very beginning, playing on their own field, St. Regis took the lead. But then, with two “pony” teams pitted against one another and with Hillcrest’s best pony in the paddock, or rather on the bench, what chance did they have? Hillcrest took a good licking and Kentucky took it hardest of all. At the end the score stood 21 to 6.
Seeing how down-hearted the mountain boy was, Johnny Thompson said, “Never mind, Kentucky old boy, about the middle of the week, when trade is lightest, we’ll step on the starter and go spinning back to our beloved hills. There are some things down there I’d like to look into a little further. What do you say?”
“That,” said Kentucky, with a broad grin, “will be somethin’.” His grin was even broader than Johnny had expected it to be. Little wonder, for this boy had thoughts all his own. He was thinking, “Doc won’t let me go out on the field and practice, ’fraid I’ll get this old rib bumped again. Down in the mountains Doc has nothing to say about it. I’ll just slip out into the moonlight for a little practice with old Nicodemus.” He chuckled a wise chuckle. But to Johnny he said never a word.
On Wednesday afternoon of that week they were on their way.
Our minds are strange. For some of us a place left behind is a place forgotten. It was so with Johnny Thompson. The moment that Stone Mountain loomed up before him, Hillcrest was forgotten. Like the passing of the morning mist, the Blue Moon, Red Dynamite, the entire football team and all that was Hillcrest at its best, were forgotten. At once his mind was filled with other scenes, other problems. The old mill with its sucking pumps producing its strange liquid treasure, Donald Day, poor old Uncle Mose, the ornery and penny-pinching Blinkey Bill, the proposed lightning from the blue sky, the aviator down in the valley with his new type of motor, all these clamored for first place in his imaginative mind.
“Kentucky,” he said, throwing back his square young shoulders, “life is wonderful!”
“It sure is,” Kentucky agreed. He was thinking of old Nicodemus and the moon that would hang like a Japanese lantern over the hills that night.
And so they glided on down past Stone Mountain to the mouth of Pounding Mill Creek and fresh adventure.
Johnny’s first visit on the following morning was at the old mill. He found Donald Day busy as usual, compressing liquid air.
“Glad to see you, Johnny,” were his welcoming words.
“Thanks,” Johnny grinned. “Had a bolt of lightning from the blue sky yet?”
“Not yet, Johnny, but soon,” Donald smiled a mysterious smile.
“How’s the chance of helping you?”
“Fine, Johnny, when the time comes. Just now though, there’s something else you might do.”
“What’s that?” Johnny was ready for anything.
“Got something for the aviator down there in the valley. Want to take it?”
“Sure do!” Johnny’s reply was full of enthusiasm. “He helped us take your grandfather to the hospital. Never forget that.”
“We sure won’t, Johnny. Just now he wants some liquid air. This is the tenth order I have received from him. He wants ten gallons. It’s ready, so if you’ll take it down, you’ll be doing me a great favor.”
“Liquid air,” said Johnny. “What does he want with liquid air?”
“Don’t know. Going to peddle it, like as not. Good profit in it. And an airplane’s the thing for carrying it. Gets it there quick so there’s little loss by evaporation.”
“Mebby that’s it,” Johnny agreed. Down deep in his mind, however, he did not agree. He had quite another notion, a very startling notion it was too.
“More foot-pounds of energy,” he muttered as he went on his way. “Wonder if that could be true.”
“Good!” exclaimed the young aviator, as, an hour later, Johnny appeared with a two wheel cartload of liquid air. “I’m just wanting that.”
“So you’re really going to use it?” Johnny grinned. “I thought so.”
“Going to use it,” the man stared at him. “Sure I am! Why not?”
“Donald thought you might be going to peddle it.”
“Not I,” the aviator laughed. “I’ll be using a lot of it. Want to stay and watch me?”
“Sure I do!”
Ten minutes later, Johnny found himself looking at the strangest airplane motor he or anyone else had even seen.
“And does it really use liquid air for fuel?” he asked.
“Sure it does!” The aviator had reached for a small jug of liquid air. “Watch and see. Liquid air and carbon, that’s what she eats.
“You put the liquid air in here and the carbon here. The mechanism mixes it and throws it into the combustion chambers in just the right quantity.
“I’ve had a tough time,” he straightened up. “Liquid air was so cold it froze up all my lubricants. But I’ve solved that. Got two sets of feeders. One set is being thawed out by the exhaust while the other’s working. Going to be great now. Stick around until I get the motor hooked up and we’ll take a ride on air—liquid air.” He laughed a joyous laugh.
“But say!” His voice changed. “Tell that boy up at the mill that his grandfather is much better. Got that word on my short wave wireless. He’ll be coming home soon. Fine thing. Great old man!”
“Never was any finer,” Johnny said huskily. “He’s done a lot for these people. He helped them to make a living. On Sunday he talked to them like a father. He told the ones who have been doing a lot of fighting—”
“Feud fighters?”
“Yes, feuds. He told them they couldn’t do it and be good citizens.”
“Right too, exactly right.” The aviator reached for a pair of pliers.
“Now!” his tone changed. “Just give me a lift shoving this thing into place and we’ll be away before you know it.”
A half hour later the airplane rose above the meadow and soared away. It was a trial flight and the stout little ship was handled with greatest care. They climbed far up into the blue sky but never was the narrow meadow out of their sight. Johnny knew enough about flying to realize that from that height, even though their motor went dead, they could go gliding down to a safe landing.
“Working perfectly,” he shouted in the pilot’s ear.
Just then, as if to give the boy a shock, the motor let out a sudden pop-pop-pop. The aviator, after touching a lever, tapped his head with his knuckles as much as to say:
“Knock on wood.”
A half hour later they came soaring back to earth. “She’s working.” The pilot heaved a sigh of content. “Two or three more days and I’ll be ready to cross the continent. Tell that boy at the mill to freeze me up a good lot of liquid air.”
“All right, I’ll tell him,” Johnny agreed. “It’s—it’s wonderful!” he cried. “Riding through the air with only air and carbon for fuel. Is it practical, a truly great thing? Will people everywhere be using liquid air for airplane fuel before long?”
“No-o,” the pilot replied slowly. “I’m afraid not. Fuel that costs two or three dollars a gallon is hardly practical. Besides, there may be other drawbacks that haven’t appeared yet. How will the steel parts stand freezing and thawing? Things like that.
“I’m afraid it’s just a sort of sporting proposition,” he added. “Anyway, I’m just sort of playing at it.
“There’s this much about it though,” the drawl left his voice. “On a very long trip it would be wonderful, this liquid air fuel! It has more power per pound than any fuel you can carry. And that means more miles. I shouldn’t wonder,” he grinned broadly, “but that if they get this stratosphere flying worked out perfectly, some fellow will one of these days load his motor with liquid air and circle the globe in a non-stop flight. I—I’ll take you on a regular trip some of these days.”
“But not around the world,” Johnny chuckled.
“No. Not quite yet.”
Truth was, this “regular trip” was to be taken much sooner than they imagined, and for a very important reason.
“Guess I better get going,” Johnny said.
“All right. Don’t forget to tell that boy about his grandfather.”
Johnny did not forget. He hurried away at once to break the good news.
“Thanks,” Donald smiled his gratitude when the message had been delivered. “That takes a load off my shoulders. Now, perhaps I can get my mind on other things.”
“What things?”
“Old Uncle Mose and Blinkey Bill come first,” Donald’s brow wrinkled. “Blinkey Bill claims he owns the coal rights on Uncle Mose’s land. He’s stopped him mining coal there. Old tight wad! That’s making things hard for Uncle Mose. No coal to mine. Poor old Mose and his wife will starve. Think of it, the oldest couple in the mountains! You’d think—”
“There’s nothing fair about it,” Johnny broke in. “I doubt if Blinkey Bill owns the coal rights on that land. If he does, his father got it by some sharper methods that Uncle Mose didn’t understand. And Uncle Mose didn’t get a thing for it, you can be sure of that.”
“Thing is,” Donald turned to Johnny, “you and Ballard have got to play your part, sort of work up the psychology, my professor would say. This evening,” his voice dropped, “just before dark, you boys just happen by Blinkey Bill’s house and stop to talk. He’ll say:
“‘Jest come up and set a while and rest yourself,’ he always does. So you just go up and set.” He laughed a low laugh.
“And while you set,” he went on, “you start talking about Uncle Mose, what a hard time he has, how old he is and how wicked it would be if any one would take a mean advantage of him. Just get Blinkey Bill to feeling about as low down as the hind leg of a glow worm.
“Then just casually,” he took a long breath, “just slow like, as if it sort of occurred to you, say something about how deadly lightning can be, especially when it comes out of a clear sky.
“The sky’s going to be real clear tonight,” he added as if it were an afterthought.
“Yes,” Johnny agreed, guessing he knew what would happen. “It’s going to be uncommonly clear.”
Sometime later, an hour after darkness had fallen, Johnny and Ballard found themselves seated on hickory-bottomed chairs on Blinkey Bill’s porch. They had been there for some time and had talked considerable, especially about poor Uncle Mose. Blinkey Bill had listened and as he listened, had appeared to shrink deeper and deeper into his chair. When, however, Johnny said quite suddenly:
“It sure is queer about lightning—the kind that comes out of a clear sky!” Blinkey Bill sat up quite suddenly.
“What’s that you all are a sayin’?” he demanded.
“I said it’s queer about lightning out of a clear sky.”
“I don’t believe there ever was any,” Ballard put in.
“Sure there were!” Blinkey Bill’s eyes were popping. “I saw hit my own self. Knocked me down. Might nigh kilt me, it did. I—”
He broke short off. His eyes shone like stars as he stared at the crest of the mountain, for there, sharp and distinct against a clear, black night sky, a flash of light went zig-zagging away. It was followed ten seconds later by a low, rumbling roar.
“Lightnin’! Lightnin’ out of a clear sky!” The look on Blinkey Bill’s face at that moment was a terrible thing to see.
“It does sort of seem like lightning,” Johnny said quietly.
“Seem like!” Ballard had not been let into the entire secret. “It IS lightning!”
“Shore! Shore hit’s lightnin’!” Blinkey Bill was trembling like a cottonwood leaf in a high wind.
Once more there came the zig-zag flash across the sky. This time the roar that followed was fairly deafening.
“Hit’s judgment!” Blinkey Bill mumbled. “Judgment of the Lord almighty!”
“What you all been a doin’?” Ballard asked, dropping into native speech.
“Nothin’. Not nary a thing! I tell you nary a thing!” Blinkey Bill fairly screamed these words.
“How about Uncle Mose and his coal mine?” Johnny suggested softly.
“That no-count old—” Blinkey Bill broke off. Mouth open, eyes staring, he once again took in that terrifying spectacle that, so far as he knew, was a special act of God, a bolt from the blue.
“Tell you the truth,” he was fairly whimpering now. “Fact is I ain’t for sartin’ sure my Pappy bought in them coal rights.”
“Then,” suggested Johnny, “you better let Uncle Mose mine his coal.”
“I reckon as how I orter do that,” Blinkey Bill agreed.
“Wait. I’ll write it out.” Johnny drew pencil and paper from his pocket and pretended to write. Truth was he and Donald had carefully prepared the release on Uncle Mose’s coal rights hours before.
“There,” he exclaimed at last. “You sign right there.”
“Now wait a leetle,” Blinkey Bill began to hedge. “I ain’t plumb sure fer sartin that—”
Just then the most dazzling flash of all zig-zagged its way across the blue-black sky. It was followed at once by a terrific roar.
“Here! Here!” Blinkey Bill’s voice trembled so he could scarcely speak. “Here! Gimme that air paper. Hit’s proper to sign hit, plumb proper.”
So the paper was signed. The boys departed and old Uncle Mose’s coal mine was saved for all time.
Later that night had anyone happened along the mountain trail above Colonel Crider’s pasture, as Johnny Thompson had done one night some time before, they might have seen as on that other night, two dark figures darting back and forth across old Nicodemus’ pen. One led, the other followed but not once did the one catch up with the other. At last, the one that always led, climbed up the side of the pen to go tumbling over it and disappear in the shadows that lie thick along the Stone Mountain trail in the moonlight. The Kentucky football star had been having a little practice. If one were to judge by his action it might be proper to say that Nicodemus had enjoyed this nocturnal adventure quite as much as the boy.
* * * * * * * *
“Here,” Johnny was smiling as he handed a folded paper to Donald next day. “Here’s the release for Uncle Mose’s coal rights. It worked like a charm. But tell me, how did you do it?”
“Not so difficult when you know how.” Donald pointed to a long, irregularly formed glass tube in the corner. It was in three sections. “There’s a transformer up there on the ridge. The line carries power to a coal mine. Hope they don’t arrest me for stealing power. Guess they won’t if I tell my story.
“You see,” he went on after a chuckle, “I had some gas extracted from liquid air in those tubes. When they were all connected and hung down from a tall tree they made quite a long, zig-zagging line. By running a powerful current through the gas in the tubes, I was able to give you a fairly accurate picture of what lightning is at its best.
“Just a neon sign really,” he added quietly. “Sort of irreverent to imitate God’s wrath perhaps, but I trust I’ll be forgiven.”
“I see,” Johnny’s tone told his admiration. “But how about the thunder?”
“Simple enough, but costly. Nice little explosion of liquid air mixed with carbon.”
“You’re an artist in your line,” Johnny complimented him.
“Perhaps,” the other boy agreed. “Also something of a nut. Rather wild sort of way to get what you want. I shouldn’t care to recommend it as a regular thing.”
Later that day Johnny found himself in his car threading his way over a difficult passage. The hour for his departure with Ballard for Hillcrest and the great game on the morrow was rapidly approaching. He did want one more word with the aviator down in the valley so he had decided to have a try at reaching him in his car.
This try was to end in disaster. Just as he was negotiating the last twenty rods of the trail something went wrong with his brakes. He shot down a short, steep slope, took a sudden shock that all but sent him through the windshield, then, with a sinking heart felt his right front wheel crumple from the impact.
“Here we are,” he groaned. “No train until morning! No car available. And tomorrow’s the big game. Hillcrest will be defeated without Old Kentucky. What’s worse, Kentucky will die if he is not there. Could anything be worse?”
“See you’re in a fix,” a friendly voice said. The speaker was close at hand. Johnny looked up. It was the young aviator.
“Yes, a terrible mess!” Johnny’s voice carried conviction.
“Tell me about it.”
Johnny told of his dilemma, told it as he had never told anything before.
“But why not let me fly you over?” the other suggested simply.
“With your liquid air motor?”
“Why not?”
“Suppose it fails?”
“It won’t fail!”
“Done!” Johnny gripped his hand. “I—I’ll go get Kentucky and-and thanks.”
“Save that for the end of the trip,” the pilot grinned.
“Are—are you,” Johnny had been struck by a sudden thought, “could you use a little publicity on your new type of motor?”
“It would be thankfully received.”
“You shall have it,” Johnny was away.
On his way to find Kentucky, Johnny scribbled a note, then thrust it together with two new paper dollars into Lige Field’s hand.
“Here Lige,” he exclaimed, “hop on your pony and ride like sixty to the Gap. Get this message off. The change is all yours.”
“Thanks, Johnny! Thanks a powerful lot!” Lige was away and so was Johnny.
After racing up the creek and over a low ridge to notify Kentucky of their good-bad fortune of a wrecked car and a promised airplane ride, without waiting for the other boy to pack his bag, he hastened back toward the meadow and the waiting plane.
On the way he caught up with Donald Day. “Come on along with me to the meadow,” he urged. “We’re flying back to Hillcrest for tomorrow’s game.”
“Boy! You’re going high-hat in a big way!” Donald exclaimed, increasing his speed.
“Case of necessity,” Johnny explained.
“One thing I wanted to ask you,” Johnny said after a moment of silent marching. “What would happen if you pumped a quantity of liquid air into a football?”
“Football would get mighty cold, nearly freezing, perhaps worse.”
“And then?”
“Then it would expand until it burst. You can’t confine liquid air, at least not in any ordinary way.”
“That,” said Johnny, “was just what I suspected. Those fellows played a trick on us. A player kicked the football into the bleachers, one of the fans substituted another ball he’d just given a shot of liquid air.”
“Strange sort of thing to do,” Donald’s brow wrinkled. “Tell me about it.”
Johnny did tell him about that football game and the bursting ball.
“Queer sense of humor,” was Donald’s comment. “Lost them the game, didn’t it?”
“At least they lost it,” Johnny chuckled. “Hope there’ll be no monkey shines tomorrow. Guess there won’t be. Good clean, hard-fighting crowd, that Naperville team. But they’ve got to take a licking. And they will if only the old Doc will let Kentucky play.”
“Here’s hoping!” said Donald. “And here we are at the meadow. There’s Ballard coming over the ridge. You can’t stop that boy. He’s a great fellow. My grandfather is very fond of him. You’re doing wonders for him, Johnny. Got to be getting back. Here’s luck for tomorrow!” The young scientist gripped Johnny’s hand. Then he was away.
Five minutes later with their strange, air-burning motor hitting hard on every cylinder, the boys, with their pilot, felt themselves being lifted high into the bluest of blue skies that so often smile down upon the Blue Ridge Mountains of Kentucky.
To the inexperienced person it is impossible to judge the speed with which an airplane travels. With no trees, no telephone poles, no nothing speeding past him, he is likely to think of himself standing still in mid-air. Not so Johnny Thompson. He had ridden in many planes and under every possible condition. He had come to have a sort of sixth sense. This was a feeling for speed. As he now sped through the air he became wildly excited for he was, he knew, travelling faster than ever before.
“It’s the fuel,” he told himself. “Liquid air and carbon.” Stealing a glance over the pilot’s shoulder, he watched with amazement as the speed indicator rose from two hundred to two-fifty, then to three hundred.
“With a little tail wind, we’d beat the clock,” he chuckled. “Be there before we know it.”
They were, but not until Johnny had time for a few serious thoughts about tomorrow’s game. That game meant a great deal. For Hillcrest it meant a final triumph over an ancient rival. All the old grads would be there. Some had wired for reserve seats from a distance of a thousand miles. Some, like himself, were to come by plane. Johnny thrilled at the thought.
He closed his eyes for a moment and into his mind’s vision there floated the “Crimson Flood,” the team: Stagger Weed, Tony Blazes, Jack Rabbit Jones, Artie Stark, Punch Dickman—all marched before him. And after that, most important of all, Red Dynamite and Old Kentucky. “Good Old Dynamite!” he whispered. “And Kentucky! They must win! They—”
But what was this? Had something gone wrong with the motor? A chill set him shuddering. They were circling for a landing.
Then he laughed. Seizing Kentucky’s hand, he gripped it hard. “We’re here!” he shouted. “Kentucky, we are here! The emergency landing a mile from Hillcrest is right beneath us.” And so it was. They had come with the speed of the wind, no ordinary wind either, the speed of a whirlwind.
Fast as they had come, the news of their strange and daring flight with a new and little-tried motor had preceded them. Johnny’s message had come through. A crowd had gathered to see them land. In that crowd were reporters and camera men. Their pictures would be in all the morning papers. Johnny, Kentucky, and the inventor of this new motor would be there. All this would be grand publicity for the inventor and his motor. It would help to swell the crowd at tomorrow’s game. Johnny was glad.
That evening, just before nine, the team was gathered in the back room of the Blue Moon for a last look at unusual plays and a cheering word from the coach.
“Football is a game of war.” The coach spoke earnestly. “Back there in those hard days of 1918 when some of us paid a long visit to France, we practiced long weeks before we were sent into the trenches. That practice was real, the realest thing any of us had ever known. It had to be. When, in bayonet practice, we went after a dummy—a gunny-sack stuffed with straw—that was, to us, not a sack but a man. It must be a man, for tomorrow, next day, the day after, we would go over the top. Then it WOULD be a man. Everything must be real.
“Football is like that, you must go after things hard. You must buck the line in scrimmage as you do in a real game.
“Football is like war in other ways. If a battalion cannot go through the enemy’s line, it attempts to go around him. If an army is too light for ground fighting, it takes to the air. You do the same thing in football.
“In war, practice is not enough. When the zero hour arrives, a soldier must have a clear head, his body must be fit, he must have his nerves under control. Only so can he win and live.
“You boys have practiced hard. You have given the best there is in you. You are prepared. Tomorrow you must be at your best. Keep your heads. Get a good grip on your nerves. Don’t let the other fellows get your goat. Go in to win!”
“Yea! Yea! Hear! Hear! Hear!” came in a roar from the team.
“Thanks,” the coach smiled. “And now—” he broke off to stand at attention for a period of seconds. Had his keen ears caught some unusual sound? Johnny, who sat in a corner close to a half open window, would have sworn he caught a faint rustle from the outside. “But who’d be around this time of night?” he asked himself. “And after all, what does it matter? All Hillcrest is loyal to our team.”
“Now,” the coach went on at last, “we’ll go through two or three plays rather rapidly.” Picking up a bit of chalk, he stepped to the blackboard. “This play,” he drew circles rapidly, “is one of balanced formation. You’ll likely try it after a couple of long, and probably unsuccessful passes. In the play—”
Again he paused to listen. This time Johnny did hear some sound from without, he was sure of it. “Might be Panther Eye’s black giant!” he told himself with a shudder. “But then,” he asked himself, “is there a black giant?” He rather doubted it. He had come to think of that giant as a black ghost. Panther Eye too might be a ghost for all he knew.
“In this play,” the coach began once more, “Artie passes the ball from quarter to Punch at full. Punch poses as for a long pass. But Dynamite swings round close behind the line of scrimmage and the ball is thrown to him. In the meantime, Rabbit and Tony dash round left end in position to receive a pass. Dynamite, you go through the line for whatever gain you can, then, if there is a chance, shoot a pass to Rabbit or Tony. After that,” he grinned, “it’s your game. Let your conscience be your guide.”
“Have you got that?” he demanded.
“Yea! Yea! Yea! You bet!” came from every corner.
“All right. Now this next one is a trick play. It—”
He did not finish, for at that moment, from somewhere outside, there came a most unearthly scream.
“Who—what’s that?” Every man was on his feet.
They dashed to the window just in time to witness a short, sharp struggle between two shadowy figures. One was of ordinary size, the other a person of huge proportions, a giant. Apparently it was the smaller person who had screamed, for now, as he half broke away, he let out one more blood-curdling cry.
The next instant he was free and dashing toward the front of the Blue Moon. Ten seconds later some heavy object launched itself against the locked door of the place and an agonizing voice cried:
“Let me in! For God’s sake let me in. He’ll kill me!”
There was no opportunity for letting him in. Before anyone could reach the front of the large room, he broke the door open, and fell panting on the floor.
Walking calmly past the prostrate figure, Johnny stepped out into the moonlight and took a sweeping survey of the surrounding territory. Nothing unusual was to be seen. The giant had vanished.
“Never-the-less there was a giant!” he said slowly. “Pant’s big, hooked-nose giant, I’ll be bound. But why, I wonder, was he man-handling that other fellow?”
The reason was not far to seek, at least Johnny felt that way about it, for the moment he laid eyes on the frightened stranger, who by this time had risen from the floor, he recognized in him, the sneering Naperville sophomore, the very one who had come near to causing Kentucky’s downfall.
Every boy in the room had recognized this fellow, the coach as well, but—Johnny thought this a trifle strange—not one of them all gave any indication that they knew him. For that matter, however, the boys seemed willing enough to let Coach Dizney do the talking.
As for the stranger, Johnny thought he had never seen anyone so thoroughly frightened. Eyes wild, nostrils widely distended, lips far apart, he stood there panting.
“Well, son?” the coach’s tone was disarming.
“He—he would have killed me,” the boy spoke with difficulty.
“Who?”
“The big, black giant.”
“Giant?” The coach looked at him strangely. “We have no giants in Hillcrest. Must have escaped from a circus.”
“Yes—yes, I—I guess that was it,” the boy seemed relieved.
“But what were you doing out there?” the coach asked quietly.
“Just—why, just passing—just walking by.” The stranger appeared slightly confused.
“There’s no sidewalk there,” the coach said.
“Johnny,” he turned about, “suppose you get the Chief on the wire. Tell him to run over here.”
“O. K.!” Johnny was on his way.
“I—I—” the stranger gave the coach an uncertain look. “Well you see I—I got lost so I—I just sort of cut across.”
The coach seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “a good hot drink would brace you up. Cup of hot chocolate perhaps.”
“Yes, I—”
“Kentucky,” the coach turned to smile, “one cup of hot chocolate on me.”
“One cup of hot chocolate coming up.” The look on Kentucky’s face was a study. Was he amused? Was he afraid, perhaps, that he might be tempted to throw the drink in the stranger’s face? Who could say? Enough that he did his duty as host faultlessly.
There came the stamping of feet and the Chief of Police arrived. “What’s up?” he demanded. The stranger stared at him, gulped down the last of his cocoa, then swallowed hard.
“This boy says he saw a giant that broke loose from a circus.” Was there a twinkle in the coach’s eye?
“Dangerous,” said the Chief.
“He—he shook me,” the boy stammered.
“Bad! Very bad!” said the Chief. “Then what?”
“He broke in the door to this place,” said the coach.
“The giant?” the Chief appeared to stare.
“This boy,” the coach replied.
“Oh, this boy! So!” The Chief’s face was sober. “Breakin’-an’-enterin’. That’s it. Thirty days at least, I’d say.”
“But—but—” the boy’s face paled, “he was after me.”
“Any confirmation?” the Chief looked about. “Johnny, did you see him, this ’ere escaped giant?”
“I went out and looked around,” Johnny said truthfully, “I didn’t see a soul.”
“Breakin’-an’-enterin’,” the Chief repeated slowly. “Pretty bad. Thirty days, I’d say.”
“But, Chief,” the coach appeared to protest, “that would be rather hard. Perhaps—
“Got any relatives, son?” he turned to the intruder. “Anyone a hundred miles away or so?”
“Yes—yes I got an uncle in Springer,” the boy’s tone was eager.
“Would you stay there three days if you were sent there?”
“Yes—yes I would,” his eagerness increased.
“How about it, Chief?” The coach smiled.
“Whatever you say, coach.”
“Fine! Will you see him on his way, Chief?”
“Be glad to, coach. Come on, son.”
The Chief and his prisoner passed through the door, to enter a car and go rolling away.
“Snooping, that’s what he was,” said Dynamite indignantly. “Trying to get on to our plays and signals. Oh well, we’ll not be bothered with him tomorrow, and, old son,” he turned to Kentucky, “you won’t have to choke him for calling names. He won’t be there to call ’em.”
“I shore am right smart ’bliged to hear that,” Kentucky drawled. “That there is the name-callin’est feller I might-nigh ever seed!”
At that every boy in the room burst into a hearty laugh.
“Perhaps,” said the coach thoughtfully, “that was taking an unfair advantage of the enemy.”
“Not a bit of it!” Dynamite exploded. “They beat us out of that last game because he wasn’t penalized for a foul. Besides, all spies should be shot at sunrise. You let him off easy.”
“Glad you think so,” the coach heaved a sigh of relief.
“But what about this giant?” he wrinkled his brow. “How many of you really saw him?”
“I—I—I—sure! Sure we saw him,” came in a chorus.
“I think I might shed a little light on that. All of you get set for a lemon soda and I’ll entertain you with a yarn not one of you’ll believe.” It was Johnny who spoke.
While they drank their soda, Johnny told the story of Panther Eye, the giant, and the kidnapped girl, told it through to the end, or at least, as far as the story had gone. “Now,” he ended, “can you beat that?”
“Can’t even tie it,” the coach said solemnly.
“Well, boys,” the coach rose, “big day tomorrow. Time to start pounding your ears.” The team filed silently from the room.
Later that night Johnny received a strange visitor. The last freshman to drop in for a chocolate bar had left the door ajar. Since the evening was mild and the room was warm, Johnny had not troubled to close it. Instead he sat by the stove musing on many things. In his imagination he heard again the roar of a bear, the loud boom of an explosion, the roar of a thousand voices shouting for Hillcrest and victory.
“Victory,” he whispered. “Tomorrow’s the day. Will they win? And Kentucky, will he have a part in it?” In his mind’s eyes once more he saw them marching by, the team: Rabbit Jones, Tony Blazes, Stagger Weed, Punch Dickman, Artie Stark, Dynamite, Old Kentucky, and all the rest. What a fine bunch they were! And what a season it had been! His blood warmed at thought of it. “To be a little part of a big thing like Hillcrest College. Ah! That was something! It was—”
His thoughts broken short off, he sat there staring at the apparition that stood in the opening of the door. A girl, she was tall and gracefully slender. And how fair she was! Her hair seemed mere moonbeams, her face was like shimmering silk. Was she a ghost? Johnny started but did not move. He had met up with ghosts of a sort before and had found them harmless.
“Pardon me,” the girl’s voice was low, musical. “Are you Johnny Thompson?”
“Speaking,” Johnny was on his feet.
“And are you a friend of a person they call Panther Eyes?” Her English, though perfect, was spoken with a foreign accent. Johnny was plagued by the notion that he had seen her somewhere before.
“Yes,” he replied, “Panther Eye and I have been great friends. Won’t you sit down?”
The girl accepted the chair offered to her then, turning eagerly toward him she said, “Can you tell me where he is—this Panther Eye? It is important that I should know. He saved me from death, worse than death—I wish to thank him. My father would reward him.”
“That,” Johnny smiled, “happened in Ethiopia.”
“Yes—yes,” her tone was eager. “You know about it. He has told you. Where is he?” She glanced hurriedly about the room.
“He is not here,” Johnny said. “I do not know where he is, may never know again. He’s that sort.”
“Oh!” The girl voiced her disappointment. “That’s—that’s really terrible. You see,” she went on, “Father is—you might say—rather well to do. Oil and all that. He went to Ethiopia to study oil prospects. He found a valley there and came to love it. He sent for me. We lived there happily. And then—then—” she covered her eyes for an instant. “Then that terrible black giant carried me away. And—and your friend saved me.”