It was. They drank three cups apiece and felt better, much better. Two banjos lay on the shelf back of the counter. Taking up one of these Jensie put a hand on the counter, gave a little spring, and there she was, seated on the counter as she had been many a time in Cousin Bill’s store down in the Cumberland mountains.
She touched the strings and at once, strange, quaint mountain melodies began pouring forth on the still night air. They were alone, just Johnny and the girl. But not for long. The door was open. The thrum-thrum-thrum of the banjo carried far. Into the dim lit room, shadowy figures like dark ghosts began to glide. One by one, each in his corner, they came to rest. Johnny could not see their faces. He could guess who they were and was glad. It promised well for the future of the Blue Moon.
Then a tall, slim, slouching figure appeared. Both Johnny and Jensie recognized him at a glance. Johnny felt a wave of warmth creep over him. Jensie gulped, paused, then played on.
“Here, gimme that thar banjo,” drawled a low, melodious voice. “Blame me, if you ain’t the sorriest banjo picker I mighty nigh ever heard.” It was Ballard.
Jensie did not give up the banjo. Instead, she reached over, took down the second banjo, then slid over, making a place for Ballard beside her.
“Come on, boy,” she whispered, “let’s give ’em a little touch of old Kentucky.”
A moment more and two banjos were thrumming where one had been before, and two melodious voices were drawling the words of “Kentucky Babe.”
The sound carried farther now. New recruits to the voluntary audience were arriving. Some were boys and some girls. Two gray-haired professors sidled into a corner. Rules? Tonight there were no rules. They had lost the first big game of the season. One and all they were in need of consolation. They were getting it from these mountain singers.
From “Kentucky Babe” the melodious pair went to “Moonlight on the Wabash” and “Springtime in the Rockies.” Then, with a sudden low strumming of strings, they drifted away into some sweet, haunting melody of the mountains, a song without words, never written down but loved and remembered by every new mountain generation.
A hush fell over the audience as it ended. The hush deepened as the strings took up an old, old refrain and the untrained melodious voices began: “The sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home.”