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!”