“No good!” Dynamite muttered. “But we gotta’ score! We just gotta’ score!”
There are some things in this life that “just must” be done but, in the end, because of circumstances beyond our control, cannot be done. Hillcrest did not score in that quarter.
Never in all his life had Dynamite been so disappointed, and never had he looked upon a more radiant smile than he saw on Kentucky’s face as he approached the bench.
“We’ll get ’em,” the mountain boy promised. “Two touchdowns in the last quarter. It’s written in the stars. I saw it in my forecast this morning.”
“You been studying the stars?” Dynamite asked.
“It’s all written down in a book,” Kentucky was shedding his blanket. The hot drink from Jensie’s brown jug was still coursing through his veins.
“But, Kentucky,” Dynamite remonstrated, “perhaps Doc won’t let you.”
“He’s gone,” Kentucky grinned broadly. “Somebody’s sick, an auto accident or something. He left fifteen minutes ago.”
Dynamite was sunk. “I’d rather we lost the game,” he muttered.
By the time the whistle blew he had snapped out of that mood. Indeed he felt more cheerful than he had at any time that day. Somehow, without Kentucky at left half the picture had not been right. Now it was perfect. “All the same,” he muttered, “I’ll not send him through the line. That would be murder.”