But always, with a pigskin tucked in the hollow of his arm, there followed a slender torch of red. And this was Old Kentucky.
As they advanced down the field, Dynamite, with uncanny wisdom, picked the onrushing opponents one by one. Those who remained, sprang all in vain at the wisp of red that, like a flaming cardinal, went fluttering past them to a touchdown.
Twice this unusual pair achieved a run of sixty yards to a touchdown. When the game was over, the score stood one point below Dave’s prophecy: 30-0.
“You sure done uncommon good today!” Johnny exclaimed dropping into a slow Kentucky drawl as Ballard entered the Blue Moon.
It was closing time. The lights were low. The fire in the big stove gave forth an inviting mellow glow. The mountain boy dropped silently into a chair, stretched his feet straight out before him, then, eyes half closed, sat there silent while the clock ticked off a full quarter hour.
“Yes,” he roused at last, “that’s what old Noah Pennington would call a ‘right smart of a ball game.’ But, do you know, Johnny, I don’t think I’ll ever do my part as well again.”
“Probably you’re right,” Johnny agreed, understanding on the instant. “There are times in all our lives when some special thing gives us a mighty push and we climb to heights we may never hope to reach again.
“But, Ballard, old boy,” he hastened to add, “you’ll do well enough. Now you’ve got going, nothing can stop you. For once Hillcrest has a winning team and I’m glad, mighty glad.”
“Tomorrow I’m coming back to work here in the Blue Moon,” Ballard said quietly.
“Artie Stark has done enough for me. Every fellow’s got to make his own way,” he continued.