“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.”