“Fine!” Dynamite banged the table with his huge fist, then made the sound of wind whistling through his teeth. “Just watch us next Saturday! I smack ’em down and Kentucky goes through for a touchdown. Score’ll be about thirty-one to nothing I’d say.”
But would it? As Dynamite watched the Kentucky boy practice, each day he seemed to see him growing slimmer, more hollow-eyed and nervous. Nor was he the only one who watched. Kenneth Roberts the English professor was a real fellow. He knew boys as well as English. He had written three books for boys, real thrillers that clicked. When on Thursday, Kentucky sitting on the front seat slept all the way through his class, English B-3, he asked the boy to remain after class.
“Ballard,” he said without a smile, “you slept through my class.”
“I—I’m sorry,” Ballard blushed.
“A class room,” the teacher’s voice took on a mellow, kindly note, “is a poor place to sleep. You’ve been practicing too hard and too long. You’ll defeat yourself. I want you to do three things, stop practicing, sleep twelve hours tonight, cut all your classes tomorrow. I’ll fix it up about the classes. We—we’re watching you, boy. We’re pulling for you, son, and—and praying for you.”
“Than—” the boy’s chin quivered, “thanks awfully. I—I’ll do whatever you say.”
It is said there is power in prayer. If this is true the good professor’s prayers were not in vain. Hillcrest had never witnessed such a game of football as was played on their grid-iron the next sunny Saturday afternoon.
As they watched, it seemed that their own team consisted of but two men. One had been dubbed Old Kentucky, the other Red Dynamite. This, of course, was not true. There were eleven men on the team. On the defensive, blocking and tackling, they were all one. Even on the offensive, in his own quiet way, each man did his full share.
Even so, as the fans watched, they saw again and again a strapping fellow in red jersey break through the opponent’s line to go flaming down the field. At once the cry arose:
“Dy-na-mite! Dy-na-mite! Red! Red! Red! Dy-na-mite!” The rooters came in time to turn that cry into a series of explosions, like the clash and clatter of a front-line battle.