Red Dynamite

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER V THE CRIMSON FLOOD

  Several days later, Johnny Thompson found himself crouching on thewestern sidelines of the football field at old Hillcrest. He had beenthere a half hour. During that time a variety of interests had vied forthe attention of his active brain.

  For a time he had thought of the mill down there at the foot of StoneMountain in the Cumberlands. All that seemed quite far away now. Yet thestrangeness and mystery of it lingered. He had not forgotten his resolveto solve that mystery. In his mind's vision now he saw it all. Now theancient mill, its secret trap door and the serious minded Donald Daypresiding over it all. Johnny had hoped that Donald would tell him thesecret of those strange recesses at the bottom of the old mill. He hadpictured himself saying, "Donald, old son, how can you take an empty,double walled jug down there and bring it back full of something quitevaluable when there is nothing down there but air and water?" He hadnever asked the question, had never quite dared. So the mystery of themill 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 veryserious injuries. No one seemed to know when he might be about again. Onething was sure, everyone would be glad when that day came. "How thosemountain people do love him!" Johnny whispered as he crouched on thesidelines waiting for action.

  And Ballard? Ah, that was the question uppermost in Johnny's mind at thismoment. As he crouched there waiting for the kick off of that first ofthe 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 surewinner who in all his life had played but three games of football and hadbeen given no opportunity to shine in these, the coach had indulged inthat quaint but classic expression: "Oh yeah?"

  But Johnny had remained undismayed. "You wait and see!" had been his onlyreply. He had not told of the late night tryst with the champion butterof all rams, old Nicodemus. It seemed a little strange to him as hethought of it now. "Wait and see," he had repeated. That was all. Nowthey were waiting. They were to see. The zero hour was approaching.Cedarville, the visiting team, would kick off to Hillcrest. An importantgame? All games of a series are important. Seven games were to be playedfor the championship of the Little Seven League.

  No one wanted Hillcrest to win as Johnny did. He wanted his find, BallardBall, to turn out to be a star of the first magnitude. He wanted theHillcrest 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 hewas still young, not, however, until he had fired Johnny's boyish mindwith tales of football battles of good, old, half forgotten days.

  "They used to win," Johnny had said to Ballard that very morning. "Winand win and win! Last year Hillcrest lost and lost and lost. Hillcresthas not carried off the pennant for six years."

  To this Ballard had made no reply. Johnny thought he saw the linestighten about his thin, serious face. He was sure he caught a gleam fromthose dark, deep-set eyes. That was all. It was enough. "He'll do," hadbeen his mental comment. Now the eternal question came back to him, "Willhe do?"

  "Here they come!" a high-pitched voice cried. The speaker was closebeside Johnny. "Here they come! The Crimson Tide!"

  It was Jensie Crider who, wakening Johnny from his reverie, brought himto his feet with a snap. Yes, Jensie, the same Jensie, who had screamedthree times then leaped, full dressed, into that mountain pool was here.And, miracle of miracles, wild and free as she had been down in thehills, 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 Hillcrestteam, the Crimson Flood as Jensie had named them.

  The ball had been kicked off. A long, high, rocketing kick, it had beengathered in by Punch Dickman, the Hillcrest full-back, and now here theycame.

  To Johnny at that moment, they seemed a crimson tide indeed. Their redjersies flaming in the sun, they were like the onrush of a flamingprairie fire. Johnny's own heart flamed at sight of them.

  Among them all, one figure stood out boldly. A large, heavy boned boy, hemoved with the determined gallop of a stubborn two year old colt. He ranjust ahead of the ball carrier. When a boy in orange and blue leapedtoward the carrier, he was met not by the big full-back but by this otherboy. Hillcrest's left end whose name was Dave Powers. Dave spilled him aseasily as he might have a tea-wagon laden with dishes. Two others of theorange and blue went down before him.

  "Look at 'em!" Johnny thrilled to the core of his being. "Thirty yardline, 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 slappedhis companion on the back as if she were a boy. And she came back with afeigned punch to the jaw.

  "But Ballard?" Johnny's thoughts sobered. Ballard, the slim dark-eyedmountain boy was in there at right half. The coach was giving him hischance.

  "Good old Dizney!" Johnny muttered. "Here's hoping!"

  "He'll make good," Jensie exclaimed. "Ballard will make good. I'm sure ofit."

  "That's a pal," Johnny's heart warmed toward the girl. Once down there inthe Cumberlands he had fairly hated her for making him lose a fine blackbass. He was all for her now.

  Hillcrest had the ball. The run-back had been wonderful, but, after thatfor a time, things were not so good. Johnny saw at a glance that theHillcrest team was outweighed fifteen pounds to the man. And, in thebeginning games at least, weight does count.

  Hillcrest tried a smash through right tackle. No good. They attempted anend run with Ballard carrying the ball. Johnny caught his breath as hesaw the mountain boy tuck the ball under his arm. "First blood," hemuttered. Two enemies broke through the line. Ballard dodged one,appeared to offer the ball to the second, then pivoted and faded out tothe 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. Thenfollowed a terrific pounding of the Hillcrest line that resulted in fourfirst downs, a thirty yard run through the line and at last a touchdownby 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 consoledher, "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 strangeintroduction--or lack of introduction--back there in the mountain pool,he had suspected her of being a trifle crude. To his vast surprise, hehad found her very much of a lady.

  As he thought of it now, while Cedarville took time out before a try atthe goal, as he recalled the few happy days spent with her there in themountains, he found himself thinking of her as he might have thought ofthe fine type of English girl, who rides after the hounds, plays golf,cricket, and tennis, and is a fine-spoken, properly dressed young personfor all that.

  Ride after the hounds? Well, they had not quite done that. They hadfollowed the Colonel's favorite hounds over the ridges, huntingsquirrels. They had risen two hours before dawn to walk through the dewymoonlight to a cornfield. There they had treed two fat, marauding oldcoons 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 toBallard, then from Ballard to the coach again. What was the coachthinking 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 toHillcrest. By some strange chance, it was Ballard who caught the ball. Itwas no mere chance that Dave Powers, the left end, was at Ballard'sside--he had a way of being near the runner. Together they sprinted downthe line, but not for long. Ballard's course was too much of asnake-dance for Dave. He dodged there, pivoted here, leaped straight at awould-be tackler, then shot to the right. Eluding all would-be tacklers,leaving his team mates far behind, the slim Kentucky boy set thebleachers howling with delight. Had it not been for the lone safety manwho rushed him and downed him at the fifteen yard line, it must surelyhave been a touchdown from a run-back--a marvelous feat. As it wasHillcrest 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 toDave Powers at end, and Dave, plunging like a bucking bronco, shotthrough the line.

  "Yea! Yea! Yea!" even Jensie, who until now had watched the game inpassive 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 lostit. Cedarville battled their way to the ten yard line only to lose theball on a fumble. Hillcrest took to the air but with little success. Passafter pass dropped to earth incomplete.

  At last there was but seven minutes left to play. The day was warm forautumn. Both teams showed the strain. Hillcrest tried one more forwardpass only to meet with disaster. It was intercepted by the opponent'sright end. He went romping down the field for a second touchdown. Thekick was good. Score 13 to 7 against Hillcrest.

  "Cheer up, boys," Johnny shouted as, having taken time out, the Hillcrestboys lay sprawled out before him. "You'll win. There's six minutes yet toplay."

  "Than-thanks Johnny. Thanks for them few kind words," came from a memberof the team. Ballard did not so much as look up.

  "He's dead on his feet," Johnny whispered to Jensie. "The coach shouldtake 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 schooltogether, she and Ballard, for years. It had mattered little that herhome was large, her father rich; his home small, his family poor. Theywere friends.

  When grade school was over Jensie had been sent away to a high classprivate 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 MadameFarar's select finishing school. She came home to the mountains. Herfather had chuckled over her rebellion and had sent her, with Ballard andall her other childhood pals to the high school at the Gap.

  She had not wanted to go away to college. The appearance of JohnnyThompson on the scene had changed all that. Johnny had painted glowingpictures of college, of basket ball, football, pep-meetings, eveningsabout the open fire in the big "dorm" and all else that goes to makecollege glorious. Johnny himself was a rather glamorous figure. AndBallard was going. That was enough. So, here she was. And here wasBallard of her own Pounding Mill Creek, on a football team thatapparently 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, theopponents began battering their shattered line, marching down the fieldtoward 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 todrop right into Artie Stark's waiting arms. Artie raced forward for again of twenty yards. With a tackler at his heels he hurled a forwardpass to Dave Powers. Dave sprang into the Cedarville mob. He dodged here,pivoted there, was about to be tackled, then lateralled back to ArtieStark half way across the field and all alone.

  By this time the Hillcrest bleachers had gone mad. Even the Cedarvillerooters were screaming at the tops of their voices.

  "Touchdown! Touchdown!" yelled the excited mob. Johnny looked at hiswatch. "One minute to play, one minute for a touchdown. Regular JackArmstrong football," he murmured.

  Almost, but not quite. Finding himself in the open and in full possessionof the treasured pigskin, Artie Stark once again shot forward toward thegoal line. An enemy appeared on the right. He dodged him. One on theleft, another on the right, a third directly before him. No chance. Hiseyes roved the field. "Than--thanks, good fortune," he murmured as hesent the ball on a long, looping curve toward Ballard Ball, the slimKentucky 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 balldropped squarely in his arms. Yet--Johnny could not believe his eyes--theball went bouncing in air to at last strike the earth and roll away.

  "Incomplete pass," Johnny groaned. "One, two, three passes, allincomplete. The ball goes back miles and miles. And with only a halfminute left to play." He groaned again and all Hillcrest groaned withhim. And well they might for, scarcely had the teams lined up for playwhen 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 onthe field. He had vanished.

  "Johnny, we must find him," Jensie exclaimed. "We really must! I knowBallard. 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 forhome tonight. You never can tell."