Now I sought through Billy Conway a nearer opportunity for her favour.
He approached me one day while we were out on the football field,
practicing formations. I was on the scrub team--whose duty it was to
help knock the big team into shape.
"Johnnie, you know Vanna, don't you?... Vanna Andrews, the art student."
"Slightly," I concealed, thanking God I hadn't blushed straightway at
the mention of her name ... "--met her when I posed for Professor
Grant's classes."
"She's a beaut, ain't she?"
"Everybody thinks so."
"Don't you?"
"She'd be perfect, if she weren't so thin," I answered, almost
smothering from the thumping of my heart.
"I've often wondered what makes you so cold toward the girls ... when
you write poetry ... poets are supposed to be romantic."
"We have a good imagination."
"--wish you'd exercise your imagination a little for me ... I'd pay you
for it."
"For what?"
"--writing poems on Vanna, for me."
My heart gave a wild jump of joy at the opportunity.
"I'll think it over. But if I do so, I won't take anything for it."
Billy shook my hand fervently.
"You're all right, Gregory ... it'll help me a lot ... I've got a case
on her, I'll admit."
"Come on!" roared Coach Shaughnessy, "get on the job."
He began calling letters and numbers for a play.
And just for a joke, he took "Barrel" Way, the two hundred pound
fullback, aside, and "Rock-crusher" Morton .
Pages:
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424