The door stood half open. A mellow glow of light shone at their feet as they hopped out. From within came the murmur of voices and low laughter.
“The old Blue Moon is still doing fine,” Johnny smiled happily. “Come on in and have a snack.”
No sooner had the door framed their faces than a voice shouted: “Here’s Old Kentucky! Kentucky and that mountain gal. Come on, Old Kentucky, give us a tune.”
At once the crowd, composed of all the team and many of their friends, was on its feet and cheering huskily.
Seizing his companions, Johnny pushed them to the front. Picking up Jensie as if she were a sack of sugar, he set her down on the counter, then thrust a banjo in her hands as he whispered, “Do your durndest. Nothing could be better than this.” She flashed him an understanding smile. Then, after motioning Ballard to a place by her side, she began thrumming the chords, and “Old Kentucky Home” came whispering through the room.
Greeted by abundant applause, the two young Kentuckians played and sang their way through a half score of melodious mountain tunes into the very hearts of their listeners.
Then, of a sudden, Jensie struck her banjo a thwack. She ran her fingers across the strings to begin “Roll, Jordan, Roll! Roll, Jordan, Roll! Oh! Oh! Oh! I want to go there, to hear old Jordan roll.”
Instantly every boy and girl in the room was on his feet and singing. How the rafters of the old Blue Moon rang.
Song followed song. Quaint, beautiful, melodious negro minstrels that fitted the closing of the Sabbath day, they filled the minds of happy, carefree youth with a mellow joy that is experienced oh, so seldom, in a long, long life.
“They’re a wonderful bunch,” Johnny said huskily as he helped Jensie into the car an hour later. “A wonderful, wonderful bunch of fellows. Next Saturday they will go out on the field and romp all over it to the tune of a dozen touchdowns. And already, thank God, they’ve forgotten Kentucky’s blunder that cost them a game.”