Honor Carmody screamed, a hoarse, exultant shout. It was as she had screamed in the old good days when Jimsy King, the ball clutched to his side, tore down the field and went over the line for a touchdown. "Jimsy went! Jimsy went! Jimsy went! It was Jimsy! Jimsy!" She flung her arms over her head, swaying unsteadily on her feet. Tears streamed from her eyes and ran down over her white cheeks and into her parched mouth. In that instant there was room for no fear, no terror; they would come later, frantic, unbearable. Now there was only pride, pride and faith and clean joy. "Jimsy! Jimsy!" Her legs gave way beneath her and she slipped to the floor, but she did not cease her hoarse and pitiful shouting.
"How could he?" said Carter Van Meter. "It was impossible—in that condition! Honor, he couldn't——"
But Yaqui Juan strode to the little table where the empty decanter stood, stooped, picked up a rough jug of decorative Mexican pottery from an under shelf. Then, pausing until he saw that all their eyes were upon him, he slowly poured its contents back into the decanter. The liquor rose and rose until it reached the exact spot which Carter had pointed out to Honor—the top of the design engraved on the glass. "Mira!" said the Indian, sternly.
"God," said Carter Van Meter.
"He was acting! He was acting!" wept Mrs. King.
But Jimsy's Skipper sat on the floor, waving her arms, swaying her body like a yell leader, still shouting his name in her cracked voice, and then, crazily, her eyes wide as if she visualized a field, far away, a game, a gallant figure speeding to victory, she sang:
You can't beat L. A. High!
You can't beat L. A. High!
Use your team to get up steam