by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XV VICTORY
The look of grim determination on Ballard's face as he took up practicenext day was both inspiring and disturbing to his good friend, RedDynamite, who, by this time had come to love the Kentucky boy as he mighta younger brother.
"Steady, son," he warned as Ballard overran three long forward passes ina row. "Head work counts more than footwork."
Ballard quieted down. For a good hour and a half after that, the work ofrun-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 onover to the Blue Moon for a hot chocolate malted."
Kentucky dropped in beside him. Together they tramped from the practicefield.
"You know," Dynamite said soberly, "when you've been around a place likethis long as I have you get to love it. Every foot of ground, every stickand brick, every man and woman comes to mean something to you. They giveyou a chance here. Suppose I could go to one of those big schools? Not achance! But here, here I sit and listen to the hiss of steam in the oldboiler room. Every fifteen minutes I hop up to feed in some coal and prodthe fires. Every day I eat dust and breathe a little smoke while I dragthe ashes out. That's all I have to do and that gets me a collegeeducation. By and by, a degree.
"And all the time," he drew in a long, deep breath, "all the time I'mliving. Living grand, Kentucky, better than I may ever live again. You'llcome to love it too, Kentucky. You'll want to fight and fight and fightfor old Hillcrest.
"Here's the Blue Moon," he exclaimed as if afraid he had been guilty ofpreaching. "Fill 'em up, Artie!" he held two hands wide apart. "Two biglong ones. Double malt and triple chocolate, steaming hot."
"Two long ones coming up," Artie grinned broadly. "How's Kentucky comingon?"
"Fine!" Dynamite banged the table with his huge fist, then made the soundof wind whistling through his teeth. "Just watch us next Saturday! Ismack 'em down and Kentucky goes through for a touchdown. Score'll beabout thirty-one to nothing I'd say."
But would it? As Dynamite watched the Kentucky boy practice, each day heseemed to see him growing slimmer, more hollow-eyed and nervous. Nor washe the only one who watched. Kenneth Roberts the English professor was areal fellow. He knew boys as well as English. He had written three booksfor boys, real thrillers that clicked. When on Thursday, Kentucky sittingon the front seat slept all the way through his class, English B-3, heasked 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 apoor place to sleep. You've been practicing too hard and too long. You'lldefeat yourself. I want you to do three things, stop practicing, sleeptwelve hours tonight, cut all your classes tomorrow. I'll fix it up aboutthe 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 whateveryou say."
It is said there is power in prayer. If this is true the good professor'sprayers were not in vain. Hillcrest had never witnessed such a game offootball as was played on their grid-iron the next sunny Saturdayafternoon.
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, ofcourse, was not true. There were eleven men on the team. On thedefensive, blocking and tackling, they were all one. Even on theoffensive, in his own quiet way, each man did his full share.
Even so, as the fans watched, they saw again and again a strapping fellowin red jersey break through the opponent's line to go flaming down thefield. At once the cry arose:
"Dy-na-mite! Dy-na-mite! Red! Red! Red! Dy-na-mite!" The rooters came intime to turn that cry into a series of explosions, like the clash andclatter of a front-line battle.
But always, with a pigskin tucked in the hollow of his arm, therefollowed a slender torch of red. And this was Old Kentucky.
As they advanced down the field, Dynamite, with uncanny wisdom, pickedthe onrushing opponents one by one. Those who remained, sprang all invain at the wisp of red that, like a flaming cardinal, went flutteringpast 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 aslow Kentucky drawl as Ballard entered the Blue Moon.
It was closing time. The lights were low. The fire in the big stove gaveforth an inviting mellow glow. The mountain boy dropped silently into achair, stretched his feet straight out before him, then, eyes halfclosed, 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 thinkI'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 amighty 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. Nowyou've got going, nothing can stop you. For once Hillcrest has a winningteam and I'm glad, mighty glad."
"Tomorrow I'm coming back to work here in the Blue Moon," Ballard saidquietly.
"Artie Stark has done enough for me. Every fellow's got to make his ownway," he continued.
"All right, Ballard," Johnny's tone was as quiet as the other boy's, buthe felt a surge of warmth work its way through his being. He loved everyboy 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 hisvoice. "You'll be popular. That will help the Blue Moon."
"I--I'm glad you think so, Johnny," there was a wealth of gratitude inthe mountain boy's tone.
