As he stood there brushing the dust from the fragile fabric, the girl from Landon’s hurried out to him. “I want to thank you,” she said gratefully.
He looked at her. Risking the chance of being thought impudent, he said boldly, “And I want to know you. My name is Judd—Vernon Judd.”
She stared straight into his eyes for a moment, and was apparently satisfied with what she saw there. “I—I don’t think it will be difficult,” she said, almost in a whisper, and turned away, confused and blushing.
“Say, young fella!” Vern turned to the new speaker, who proved to be Creighton, the disagreeable superintendent of the Bloss factory, his face now stretching into a smile. “Say! I saw you make that basket-ball throw. Where did you ever play? What! You mean you were the center of that champ team, the 1911 five that were never licked? Listen!” He put his hand ingratiatingly upon the boy’s arm. “We have a basket-ball team in this factory that’s a world-beater, and we need a new man for center. Lemme see you throw again, to make sure that other toss wasn’t a lucky accident. Hey, Murph!”
A carrot-topped head popped out of the window over the entrance. “Get the big wastebasket, Murph, and hold it out there. I wanta see this guy make a throw. Come on, you; I’ll give you three chances, because it’s a hard shot.”
For once in his life, Vern felt nervous. The skill that had made him star of a star team seemed to have oozed quite away.
“Try!” the girl whispered. “You can do it. I know you can.”
Again he poised the ball and threw. Then, holding his breath, he watched it wing its curved path through the air—up, over, down; down, fair, and true, into the mouth of the waiting wicker basket.
“Yea, bo!” shouted the enthusiastic Murphy. “He can thread the needle all right.”
“Look here, my man!” Superintendent Creighton caught Vern’s coat lapel. “If I give you a job in the stock room at ten a week, will you get out and play on our basket-ball team this winter?”