“All these,” he would think with a smile, and a glad tug at his heart, “are warm and comfortable on a damp and chilly night, because I am here watching these old furnaces and listening to that hiss of steam. I am part of a big thing. I am a worker.”
Ah, yes, what more could any boy ask, a chance to study, to listen to the talk of men older and wiser than himself and then to do his part in making all this possible for many others.
Did Dave think of this often? Probably not. His head was full of forward passes, lateral passes, touchdowns, college algebra, chemical formulae, and all the rest that made up his life. For all that it was good at times just to sit there listening and thinking, just thinking and listening—nothing more.
A sturdy, cheerful, independent lot were these Hillcrest boys who worked their way. And there were scores of them. On the football team there was Stagger Weed, who tended a string of furnaces; Rabbit Jones, who swept a dozen floors every day; Punch Dickman, who was a hash slinger at the Golden Gate, and many others, happy warriors all.
“Howdy, Johnny! How’s things?” Dave greeted as Johnny came in blinking from the light.
“Fine, Dave.”
“And the Blue Moon?”
“Wonderful, Dave.” Johnny dropped into a chair beside Dave’s small desk. “Dave, how’s football?”
“You saw how it was Saturday,” Dave laughed.
“Yes, but—” Johnny’s brow wrinkled, “you didn’t use my good pal, Kentucky, very much.”