GLIDING TOWARD FRESH ADVENTURE
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.
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.