No, Johnny had not promised to attend college. “College is fine for some people,” Johnny had said. “Fine for a lot of fellows, but not for me. Imagine me sitting still for a whole hour listening to a lecture on Plato or the fifth nerve of a frog. Some people are born for action. That’s me. I can’t sit still.”
Action. Yes, that was the word, and it was action Johnny had promised. He had told Coach Dizney that he would get out and scout around among the nearby small cities for good football material. The coach had a good team—almost. He was short two or three good players. More than all else he needed a left half-back. Johnny had promised to find him that particular player.
“And I failed!” Johnny groaned.
So he had. Johnny did not play football. He was handicapped by a bad knee that doubled up under him as soon as he ran fifty yards. But Johnny knew a good player when he saw one. Johnny was a lightweight boxer of no mean reputation. He could put a man through a series of action that told him very quickly what he would be worth behind the line of scrimmage. Even Coach Dizney admitted that it was uncanny the way Johnny picked them. He had sent Johnny out to scout, then had hurried away for a vacation in the north woods. Johnny had scouted faithfully for two weeks with no results worthy of mention. Then the call of the mountains had got him.
“I failed him,” he groaned. “Failed the good old coach.”
He was full of self reproach but the lure of the hills held him. Oh well, there were still two full weeks before college opened. He’d have a breathing spell here in the Cumberlands. Then he’d go back and pick ’em. Oh! Wouldn’t he though?
A half hour later all guilty thoughts were banished by Ballard’s cheerful drawl: “All right now, we can go. Buck Howard’s here. He’ll tend the mill. Your corn will all be ground by the time we get back.” These mountain mills, like the mills of the gods, grind slow but they grind exceeding fine. Cousin Bill made a nice profit by trading “brought on” groceries, sugar, baking-powder, and spices for corn. He had the corn ground at this mill then shipped it out to special customers who liked this fine ground corn meal.
“Here’s little Bex Brice,” Ballard said. “He wants to go along. Real name’s Bexter, but we call him Bex. Old as I am, Bex is, but you forgot to grow, didn’t you Bex?”
The short, sturdy-looking, freckled faced boy grinned and said, “I reckon.” Then they were away.
“I suppose you know every rock up here,” said Johnny, as they went scrambling up and up, over an all but perpendicular trail.