CHAPTER XV
VICTORY
The look of grim determination on Ballard’s face as he took up practice next day was both inspiring and disturbing to his good friend, Red Dynamite, who, by this time had come to love the Kentucky boy as he might a younger brother.
“Steady, son,” he warned as Ballard overran three long forward passes in a row. “Head work counts more than footwork.”
Ballard quieted down. For a good hour and a half after that, the work of run-and-pass, pass-pass-and-run, then pass again went on without a pause.
“There!” Dynamite exclaimed at last, “That should do for one day. Come on over to the Blue Moon for a hot chocolate malted.”
Kentucky dropped in beside him. Together they tramped from the practice field.
“You know,” Dynamite said soberly, “when you’ve been around a place like this long as I have you get to love it. Every foot of ground, every stick and brick, every man and woman comes to mean something to you. They give you a chance here. Suppose I could go to one of those big schools? Not a chance! But here, here I sit and listen to the hiss of steam in the old boiler room. Every fifteen minutes I hop up to feed in some coal and prod the fires. Every day I eat dust and breathe a little smoke while I drag the ashes out. That’s all I have to do and that gets me a college education. By and by, a degree.
“And all the time,” he drew in a long, deep breath, “all the time I’m living. Living grand, Kentucky, better than I may ever live again. You’ll come to love it too, Kentucky. You’ll want to fight and fight and fight for old Hillcrest.
“Here’s the Blue Moon,” he exclaimed as if afraid he had been guilty of preaching. “Fill ’em up, Artie!” he held two hands wide apart. “Two big long ones. Double malt and triple chocolate, steaming hot.”
“Two long ones coming up,” Artie grinned broadly. “How’s Kentucky coming on?”