As he said this he was not thinking of Jensie, but of Ballard, who sat motionless in the car, saying nothing at all. This was HIS country. What was he thinking now? Johnny would have given a dollar to know.
“His country,” Johnny whispered to himself. Along those ridges chestnuts and beechnuts were falling. Squirrels were frisking about on the ground. With a gun and a good hound-dog—Ballard owned one of the best dogs in the mountains—you could have a perfect, gloriously golden day, hunting those squirrels and keeping an ear open for the distant gobble-gobble of some wild turkeys who might, just might, be hiding in those hills.
“What a life!” Johnny barely escaped saying the words aloud. “What a grand and glorious life!” Deep down in some hollow a fat old coon was at this moment stealing corn. Rabbits were frisking in the moonlight; Johnny saw one go dashing across the road. Down there, far below, was a two-room log cabin, Ballard’s home. In the narrow, coal-burning grate, a low fire would be gleaming. Above the mantel hung Ballard’s rifle. Beside the fire slept his favorite hound-dog.
“And I’m going to ask him to give it up,” Johnny told himself. “Going to tell him he should go back to college, to books, to serving coffee and hot dogs, and back to football. How can I?
“And yet—” Johnny touched the starter. The car went purring down the slope. And yet—yes, he would ask him. What if it was good sport to wander the hills in search of game? What if the mountains did call? What would it get you in the end? With an untrained temper, the rifle that sends a squirrel tumbling over and over from the top of a tree might at last be turned upon some human being. And after that, long years in jail.
“That,” Johnny told himself soberly, “is what football’s for, to teach a fellow to take it. Not to take vile names. The referee will take care of that, but to take a tumble, to be thrown, thrown hard again and again, to be bumped and bruised and still be able to smile. That’s football, a grand and glorious sport!” Yes, he’d ask Ballard to go back. He MUST go back!
“I—I’ll get off here,” Ballard broke in upon Johnny’s solemn meditations and high resolves. “There’s a short cut through the hills. I’ll be home in a quarter of an hour.” As Johnny stopped the car, Ballard hopped out.
“Thanks, Johnny! Thanks a powerful lot.”
“Good-bye, Ballard,” Johnny called.
“Good-bye, Ballard,” Jensie echoed. “We’ll be seeing you.”