Chapter VI: Old Kentucky

After a futile search for Ballard, Johnny wandered back to the Blue Moon. The Blue Moon was Johnny’s latest financial venture in a strange and troubled world. It promised to be a grand flop and Johnny was duly unhappy about it.

The establishing of the Blue Moon had been a suggestion of Johnny’s grandfather. The old man was seldom wrong. This time, however, it did seem that he had erred.

It had started with Johnny’s determination to find his young Kentucky friend a job, anything at all that would enable him to earn money for food and lodging. At first it had seemed simple enough. In the end it proved impossible. Everything was taken.

“Way to get a job these days,” Johnny’s grandfather had said, “is to make one for yourself.”

“Sure,” Johnny grinned, “but how?”

“Not so hard as it might seem,” the old man rumbled. “I’ve been thinking about it for quite a spell. You know college boys like a place to gather and talk things over, have a cup of coffee or hot malted, sort of a gathering place of the clan.”

“I know,” Johnny agreed.

“I’ve been watching them. They wander down town, go in here, go in there, gather in places, not so bad, not so good either, little gambling, slot machines and all that, little bad language from rough town folks, all that sort of thing. If I had a boy away from home, I’d like him in a better place. So why not, Johnny?” The old man leaned forward eagerly.

“Why not what?” Johnny asked.

“Why not turn that abandoned bowling alley building just off the campus into a sort of student’s retreat, place where they can buy little things they need, sit down for a hot drink, gather around for a bit of conversation, all that.

“I’ve got the fixtures for you, took them on a bad debt. They’re in storage. I’ll finance it for you. Make a job for both you and Ballard. What do you say?”

“Grand!” Johnny had all but hugged the old man.

They had worked hard to make the place attractive, Johnny and Ballard had. Jensie had added a feminine touch, with a picture or two and colored curtains. She had imported for them a southern negro cook who could make famous little meat pies and apple turn overs, the sort that melt in your mouth.

The place was, Johnny decided, to have very few rules, one was that this was a place for men only. Perhaps this rule was a mistake. One thing was sure, the student body had not, as yet, found their way in any great numbers to the Blue Moon, as Johnny and Jensie had named it. The place gave promise of being a prodigious failure.

“I suppose the boys like to wander down town and fill their eyes with the bright light of neon signs,” Johnny told himself gloomily, as having entered the big, front room of the place, he prodded the fire, thrust in three large logs, then seated himself for a short spell of gloomy meditation.

This meditation was broken in upon by Jensie who thrusting her head in at the open door said, “Johnny, do you think Ballard could have lit out for our native hills?”

“Don’t know,” was Johnny’s slow reply. “Guess not though. Probably just went for a long walk to wear off his grief at dropping that ball. Come on in and have a meat pie an’ a cup of coffee. It’s on the house.”

“Can’t, Johnny.”

“Why not?”

“Rules, Johnny.”

“Hang the rules!” Johnny exploded. “We made ’em. We can break ’em.”

“Besides,” his voice dropped to a disconsolate note, “I think the place is a flop.”

“No! It can’t be. It mustn’t be,” Jensie exclaimed.

“You can hang a hollow log up in a tree,” was Johnny’s strange reply, “but you can’t make a squirrel choose it for a nest. Anyway come on in. I’m sure the coffee is still hot.”

It was. They drank three cups apiece and felt better, much better. Two banjos lay on the shelf back of the counter. Taking up one of these Jensie put a hand on the counter, gave a little spring, and there she was, seated on the counter as she had been many a time in Cousin Bill’s store down in the Cumberland mountains.

She touched the strings and at once, strange, quaint mountain melodies began pouring forth on the still night air. They were alone, just Johnny and the girl. But not for long. The door was open. The thrum-thrum-thrum of the banjo carried far. Into the dim lit room, shadowy figures like dark ghosts began to glide. One by one, each in his corner, they came to rest. Johnny could not see their faces. He could guess who they were and was glad. It promised well for the future of the Blue Moon.

Then a tall, slim, slouching figure appeared. Both Johnny and Jensie recognized him at a glance. Johnny felt a wave of warmth creep over him. Jensie gulped, paused, then played on.

“Here, gimme that thar banjo,” drawled a low, melodious voice. “Blame me, if you ain’t the sorriest banjo picker I mighty nigh ever heard.” It was Ballard.

Jensie did not give up the banjo. Instead, she reached over, took down the second banjo, then slid over, making a place for Ballard beside her.

“Come on, boy,” she whispered, “let’s give ’em a little touch of old Kentucky.”

A moment more and two banjos were thrumming where one had been before, and two melodious voices were drawling the words of “Kentucky Babe.”

The sound carried farther now. New recruits to the voluntary audience were arriving. Some were boys and some girls. Two gray-haired professors sidled into a corner. Rules? Tonight there were no rules. They had lost the first big game of the season. One and all they were in need of consolation. They were getting it from these mountain singers.

From “Kentucky Babe” the melodious pair went to “Moonlight on the Wabash” and “Springtime in the Rockies.” Then, with a sudden low strumming of strings, they drifted away into some sweet, haunting melody of the mountains, a song without words, never written down but loved and remembered by every new mountain generation.

A hush fell over the audience as it ended. The hush deepened as the strings took up an old, old refrain and the untrained melodious voices began: “The sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home.”

The hush continued all through the song. Surely no audience had ever accorded a more perfect reception. For a full moment there was silence. Then a voice exclaimed:

“Yea, Kentucky! Yea! Yea! Old Kentucky!”

Instantly the throng was on its feet as the rafters rang with the shout:

“Kentucky! Old Kentucky!”

Johnny choked something down his throat. Perhaps it was his heart. By Old Kentucky, he knew they meant Ballard. The name would stick. Ballard was made for life. So too he hoped, was the Blue Moon. He touched a switch. Instantly like a smile from Heaven the light at the center of the ceiling beamed down upon them. Johnny found himself looking into a half hundred smiling faces. The team was there, almost to a man. Some of the girls were there. Those professors and six strangers completed the list.

But here was Artie Stark. He was on his feet. He was speaking: “Folks, this is to be a pep meeting, not a funeral!” Instant applause. “What we need to do is find out what it takes to win next Saturday’s game. I’ll tell you.” Artie’s round freckled and usually smiling face was serious. “I’ll tell you what we need. It’s practice! How can we win? By getting out on the air! Basketball! That’s it. Basketball on the football field. That takes practice, hours and hours of practice. I know what you’re going to say, ‘Where’s the time? All right for you,’ you’ll say, ‘you don’t have to work, Artie.’ Look!” Artie broke short off to allow his eyes to circle the crowd. “Who’s the best ball carrier we’ve got this year? Who’s the artful dodger? There he is!” He pointed straight at Ballard. “Old Kentucky. That’s who it is!” Once again the crowd cheered, this time long and huskily. Ballard turned red, struggled with something in his throat, made a few gurgling sounds, then sat there in silence.

“What does he need?” Artie demanded.

“He needs practice, to become air-minded. That’s what it will take to win! And practice, that’s what he’s going to get. I’m going to serve up chocolate sodas, banana splits, and ham sandwiches in this old Blue Moon of Johnny’s. I don’t have to work but I’m going to, for good old Hillcrest and all she stands for.”

“No, I—” Ballard was on his feet. It matters little what he meant to say. Wild cheers drowned all his efforts at speech.

As for Johnny, his head was in a whirl. Artie Stark was to be his aid at the Blue Moon! Artie, the most popular boy in the whole school! What a boost the old Blue Moon was going to get!

An hour later, when arrangements had all been made for the future and the crowd had melted away, Johnny was preparing to throw the light switch, lock the door and go home, when his attention was attracted by some stranger who still lingered in the shadows.

Wonder what he wants, Johnny thought. There was something familiar about the stooping shoulders, the large, dark glasses of the stranger. “Did—did you want something?” he asked hesitatingly.

“Yes I—” the stranger came forward. “You may have forgotten. It’s been quite a while Johnny, but I—”

“Good grief!” Johnny exclaimed. “It’s Panther Eye! My old pal Panther Eye!” Next instant he was gripping the other boy’s hand until it hurt.