THE CRIMSON FLOOD
Several days later, Johnny Thompson found himself crouching on the
western sidelines of the football field at old Hillcrest. He had been
there a half hour. During that time a variety of interests had vied for
the attention of his active brain.
For a time he had thought of the mill down there at the foot of Stone
Mountain in the Cumberlands. All that seemed quite far away now. Yet the
strangeness and mystery of it lingered. He had not forgotten his resolve
to solve that mystery. In his mind’s vision now he saw it all. Now the
ancient mill, its secret trap door and the serious minded Donald Day
presiding over it all. Johnny had hoped that Donald would tell him the
secret of those strange recesses at the bottom of the old mill. He had
pictured himself saying, “Donald, old son, how can you take an empty,
double walled jug down there and bring it back full of something quite
valuable when there is nothing down there but air and water?” He had
never asked the question, had never quite dared. So the mystery of the
mill remained a mystery still.
The old master of the mill, Malcomb MacQueen, was still in the hospital.
Apparently his fall, when the bridge came down, had resulted in very
serious injuries. No one seemed to know when he might be about again. One
thing was sure, everyone would be glad when that day came. “How those
mountain people do love him!” Johnny whispered as he crouched on the
sidelines waiting for action.
And Ballard? Ah, that was the question uppermost in Johnny’s mind at this
moment. As he crouched there waiting for the kick off of that first of
the season’s games, he asked himself over and over, “What about Ballard?”
When he told the coach that he had found a star half-back for him, a sure
winner who in all his life had played but three games of football and had
been given no opportunity to shine in these, the coach had indulged in
that quaint but classic expression: “Oh yeah?”
But Johnny had remained undismayed. “You wait and see!” had been his only
reply. He had not told of the late night tryst with the champion butter
of all rams, old Nicodemus. It seemed a little strange to him as he
thought of it now. “Wait and see,” he had repeated. That was all. Now
they were waiting. They were to see. The zero hour was approaching.
Cedarville, the visiting team, would kick off to Hillcrest. An important
game? All games of a series are important. Seven games were to be played
for the championship of the Little Seven League.
No one wanted Hillcrest to win as Johnny did. He wanted his find, Ballard
Ball, to turn out to be a star of the first magnitude. He wanted the
Hillcrest boys to win because he knew and loved them. More than that,
Hillcrest had been his father’s school. Johnny’s father had died while he
was still young, not, however, until he had fired Johnny’s boyish mind
with tales of football battles of good, old, half forgotten days.
“They used to win,” Johnny had said to Ballard that very morning. “Win
and win and win! Last year Hillcrest lost and lost and lost. Hillcrest
has not carried off the pennant for six years.”
To this Ballard had made no reply. Johnny thought he saw the lines
tighten about his thin, serious face. He was sure he caught a gleam from
those dark, deep-set eyes. That was all. It was enough. “He’ll do,” had
been his mental comment. Now the eternal question came back to him, “Will
he do?”
“Here they come!” a high-pitched voice cried. The speaker was close
beside Johnny. “Here they come! The Crimson Tide!”
It was Jensie Crider who, wakening Johnny from his reverie, brought him
to his feet with a snap. Yes, Jensie, the same Jensie, who had screamed
three times then leaped, full dressed, into that mountain pool was here.
And, miracle of miracles, wild and free as she had been down in the
hills, today she was garbed in a sober costume and going to college,
Johnny’s college, old Hillcrest. Something to marvel at here.
No time for that now though, for indeed, here they came, the Hillcrest
team, the Crimson Flood as Jensie had named them.
The ball had been kicked off. A long, high, rocketing kick, it had been
gathered in by Punch Dickman, the Hillcrest full-back, and now here they
came.
To Johnny at that moment, they seemed a crimson tide indeed. Their red
jersies flaming in the sun, they were like the onrush of a flaming
prairie fire. Johnny’s own heart flamed at sight of them.
Among them all, one figure stood out boldly. A large, heavy boned boy, he
moved with the determined gallop of a stubborn two year old colt. He ran
just ahead of the ball carrier. When a boy in orange and blue leaped
toward the carrier, he was met not by the big full-back but by this other
boy. Hillcrest’s left end whose name was Dave Powers. Dave spilled him as
easily as he might have a tea-wagon laden with dishes. Two others of the
orange and blue went down before him.
“Look at ’em!” Johnny thrilled to the core of his being. “Thirty yard
line, forty, forty-five, fifty. Over the center, forty-five! Forty!
There! There he’s down on the Cedarville thirty-seven yard line. Yow-ee!
What a run-back. It’s a good sign, Jensie! A very good sign!” He slapped
his companion on the back as if she were a boy. And she came back with a
feigned punch to the jaw.
“But Ballard?” Johnny’s thoughts sobered. Ballard, the slim dark-eyed
mountain boy was in there at right half. The coach was giving him his
chance.
“Good old Dizney!” Johnny muttered. “Here’s hoping!”
“He’ll make good,” Jensie exclaimed. “Ballard will make good. I’m sure of
it.”
“That’s a pal,” Johnny’s heart warmed toward the girl. Once down there in
the Cumberlands he had fairly hated her for making him lose a fine black
bass. He was all for her now.
Hillcrest had the ball. The run-back had been wonderful, but, after that
for a time, things were not so good. Johnny saw at a glance that the
Hillcrest team was outweighed fifteen pounds to the man. And, in the
beginning games at least, weight does count.
Hillcrest tried a smash through right tackle. No good. They attempted an
end run with Ballard carrying the ball. Johnny caught his breath as he
saw the mountain boy tuck the ball under his arm. “First blood,” he
muttered. Two enemies broke through the line. Ballard dodged one,
appeared to offer the ball to the second, then pivoted and faded out to
the right.
“Great stuff!” Johnny murmured.
In the end, however, the mountain boy was thrown for a loss of two yards.
One more down, then came the punt.
A Cedarville man carried the ball to his own forty yard line. Then
followed a terrific pounding of the Hillcrest line that resulted in four
first downs, a thirty yard run through the line and at last a touchdown
by the invaders.
“Oh!” Jensie sighed, it was the first real game she had ever witnessed.
“How can we win when they ram the line like a flock of goats?”
“Or rams?” Johnny chuckled in spite of himself. “But wait,” he consoled
her, “our team will take to the air. Then you’ll see.”
“Take to the air?” Jensie was puzzled.
“We’ll have to beat them with passes,” Johnny explained.
He looked at the girl beside him and marvelled. From his strange
introduction—or lack of introduction—back there in the mountain pool, he
had suspected her of being a trifle crude. To his vast surprise, he had
found her very much of a lady.
As he thought of it now, while Cedarville took time out before a try at
the goal, as he recalled the few happy days spent with her there in the
mountains, he found himself thinking of her as he might have thought of
the fine type of English girl, who rides after the hounds, plays golf,
cricket, and tennis, and is a fine-spoken, properly dressed young person
for all that.
Ride after the hounds? Well, they had not quite done that. They had
followed the Colonel’s favorite hounds over the ridges, hunting
squirrels. They had risen two hours before dawn to walk through the dewy
moonlight to a cornfield. There they had treed two fat, marauding old
coons and had, as Jensie put it, “Shot them at sunrise.” They had—
But there was the kick for the extra point. No good, off to the right.
Johnny cheered with the rest but his gaze was wandering from the coach to
Ballard, then from Ballard to the coach again. What was the coach
thinking of Ballard? Probably nothing. He hadn’t been given a chance. He—
“There! There they go!” Jensie cried.
At once Johnny’s eyes were on the ball. Cedarville had kicked off to
Hillcrest. By some strange chance, it was Ballard who caught the ball. It
was no mere chance that Dave Powers, the left end, was at Ballard’s
side—he had a way of being near the runner. Together they sprinted down
the line, but not for long. Ballard’s course was too much of a
snake-dance for Dave. He dodged there, pivoted here, leaped straight at a
would-be tackler, then shot to the right. Eluding all would-be tacklers,
leaving his team mates far behind, the slim Kentucky boy set the
bleachers howling with delight. Had it not been for the lone safety man
who rushed him and downed him at the fifteen yard line, it must surely
have been a touchdown from a run-back—a marvelous feat. As it was
Hillcrest went wild with the yell:
“Yea Ballard! Yea Ballard! Ballard! Ballard! Touchdown! Touchdown!”
A touchdown it was, and that on the very next play. Little Artie Stark,
Hillcrest’s midget quarter-back, took the ball, lateralled a slow pass to
Dave Powers at end, and Dave, plunging like a bucking bronco, shot
through the line.
“Yea! Yea! Yea!” even Jensie, who until now had watched the game in
passive silence, joined in the cheering.
The kick was good. The score stood 7-6 in favor of Hillcrest.
There followed moments of tense struggle. Hillcrest won the ball and lost
it. Cedarville battled their way to the ten yard line only to lose the
ball on a fumble. Hillcrest took to the air but with little success. Pass
after pass dropped to earth incomplete.
At last there was but seven minutes left to play. The day was warm for
autumn. Both teams showed the strain. Hillcrest tried one more forward
pass only to meet with disaster. It was intercepted by the opponent’s
right end. He went romping down the field for a second touchdown. The
kick was good. Score 13 to 7 against Hillcrest.
“Cheer up, boys,” Johnny shouted as, having taken time out, the Hillcrest
boys lay sprawled out before him. “You’ll win. There’s six minutes yet to
play.”
“Than-thanks Johnny. Thanks for them few kind words,” came from a member
of the team. Ballard did not so much as look up.
“He’s dead on his feet,” Johnny whispered to Jensie. “The coach should
take him out, but he’s afraid he’ll break him if he does.”
“Poor Ballard,” Jensie whispered back. “I wish he’d have some luck.”
Jensie was deeply interested in Ballard. They had gone to school
together, she and Ballard, for years. It had mattered little that her
home was large, her father rich; his home small, his family poor. They
were friends.
When grade school was over Jensie had been sent away to a high class
private boarding school for girls. This had lasted exactly three weeks.
Jensie had pined away for her beloved mountains, her childhood comrades,
and the glorious freedom of public schools. She ran away from Madame
Farar’s select finishing school. She came home to the mountains. Her
father had chuckled over her rebellion and had sent her, with Ballard and
all her other childhood pals to the high school at the Gap.
She had not wanted to go away to college. The appearance of Johnny
Thompson on the scene had changed all that. Johnny had painted glowing
pictures of college, of basket ball, football, pep-meetings, evenings
about the open fire in the big “dorm” and all else that goes to make
college glorious. Johnny himself was a rather glamorous figure. And
Ballard was going. That was enough. So, here she was. And here was
Ballard of her own Pounding Mill Creek, on a football team that
apparently could not win.
“They MUST win!” She set her teeth hard.
“They shall win!” Johnny exclaimed.
Would they? It did not seem so, for once again, as play was resumed, the
opponents began battering their shattered line, marching down the field
toward one more touchdown.
But not so fast! The Hillcrest line stiffened. Three downs and no gain.
Cedarville was forced to kick. The ball shot skyward like a rocket to
drop right into Artie Stark’s waiting arms. Artie raced forward for a
gain of twenty yards. With a tackler at his heels he hurled a forward
pass to Dave Powers. Dave sprang into the Cedarville mob. He dodged here,
pivoted there, was about to be tackled, then lateralled back to Artie
Stark half way across the field and all alone.
By this time the Hillcrest bleachers had gone mad. Even the Cedarville
rooters were screaming at the tops of their voices.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” yelled the excited mob. Johnny looked at his
watch. “One minute to play, one minute for a touchdown. Regular Jack
Armstrong football,” he murmured.
Almost, but not quite. Finding himself in the open and in full possession
of the treasured pigskin, Artie Stark once again shot forward toward the
goal line. An enemy appeared on the right. He dodged him. One on the
left, another on the right, a third directly before him. No chance. His
eyes roved the field. “Than—thanks, good fortune,” he murmured as he sent
the ball on a long, looping curve toward Ballard Ball, the slim Kentucky
boy, who stood waiting all alone on the enemy’s five yard line. It was a
perfect pass. Ballard was not obliged to move a foot. The ball dropped
squarely in his arms. Yet—Johnny could not believe his eyes—the ball went
bouncing in air to at last strike the earth and roll away.
“Incomplete pass,” Johnny groaned. “One, two, three passes, all
incomplete. The ball goes back miles and miles. And with only a half
minute left to play.” He groaned again and all Hillcrest groaned with
him. And well they might for, scarcely had the teams lined up for play
when the whistle blew. The game was over. Hillcrest had lost 13 to 7.
When Johnny and Jensie went in search of Ballard they did not find him on
the field. He had vanished.
“Johnny, we must find him,” Jensie exclaimed. “We really must! I know
Ballard. I’ve known him a long, long time. He’s too good to be true.
He’ll blame himself for the loss of that game. He—why he may start for
home tonight. You never can tell.”