"It leaves some of us without half a chance." He was silent for a moment. "Do you know that you are very lovely." She pushed the palm of her hand against the desk. "You're making fun of me." "No, no, seriously, I'm not. You're different from other girls. You don't ask for a 'line.' You're a strange girl. You possess intangible qualities that are hard for the average person to see. Like your voice, it speaks of spring blossoms and warm, dewy air." "You shouldn't talk to an inexperienced girl like me this way. It might sound to her as if you were making love, and she'd grab you in a hurry with no engagement ring to fall back on." Dressa laughed. She didn't like the way he made her feel. "Besides, I've a deadline to meet." She started toward the switch but he stopped her. "What was that you were saying about half a chance?" he asked. Then he kissed her. Dressa wanted to melt in his arms. She wanted to melt and float into infinity before she found it was real. Certainly kissing wasn't like this, something so close to eternity that it gave her the same strange feeling she used to have when she knelt to pray in her church. Shanna had always described it as something to do when there was nothing else exciting around. "Do you know that I might love you very much?" He told her in a husky voice that seemed even lower than his usual one. "I understand," she said. He left, and she turned on the light. Shanna came up to the staff room at the usual time the following day. "Well, what are you so cheerful about, Dressa? Did you meet your deadline last night?" "Oh, you might say that I did. It all depends on how you look at it," Dressa smiled. "You're so subtle at times, Dressa. Really, it takes too long even to try to figure out what you mean. Did you notice the new stocking caps the cadets are wearing?" She crossed over to the window. "Don't you ever watch them march, Dressa? They fascinate me." Dressa went on reading a satire on the college coed. Shanna didn't bother her at all this morning, not even her- beautiful face. For she knew now that it was an empty face with nothing behind it. Someday Shanna would find that pretty faces didn't matter. "There's that dashing Bob Ryan again," Shanna chirped. "I'll bet you couldn't guess what he asked me for?" Dressa felt herself getting hot and cold at the same time. It was as if Shanna had held up a mirror. It was there again, that old feeling of inferiority. "No, knowing you, I couldn't," she answered flatly. "The cadet I met yesterday was Bob, and he made a date with me for Saturday night. Isn't it surprising?" she said innocently. "Not very. I see you're not wearing your ring." Her voice was expressionless. "Oh, that. I let one of my girl friends borrow it to get rid of an old flame." Dressa wasn't going to the Cadet Prom until Shanna started talking to her about it. "Come on, Dressa. Don't be an old shoe all your life. All the girls are going. It's your patriotic duty." It was like her to mention that. "Now, just put your cadet preference, name, and height on this slip and I'll take it to Dean Billings. It'll be fun, Dressa." She handed her a white card. Dressa brushed it aside. "You know how I despise formals, Shanna." "Now, Dressa, Bob's free, I hear." She arched her eyebrow. "You've almost as good a chance to get him as anyone." Dressa could almost hear her mockery. It was as good as a dare, and Dressa's sporting blood would not allow her to shun a dare. When the door closed, Dressa found her pen and wrote her name, five-feet-six in heels, and Bob Ryan on the slip. She would buy the formal she had seen at College Shop. Perhaps, it might attract attention from the homeliness of her face. Dressa was late, and when she entered the ballroom lounge several matches had already been made. She felt all shoulders and arms as she crossed the floor to join the line of flushed, expectant coeds. She could feel the eyes of the cadets upon her, and she knew what they must be hoping. She wished she hadn't worn the strapless gown. It made her boney, shapeless neck and protruding shoulder blades all the more prominent. Her hair hung loose and straggly at the base of her neck where the dampness caused from too much excitement had robbed it of its artificial curl. But Bob had told her that she possessed intangible qualities and surely any cadet should be proud to escort her if he had at some time talked to her. Dean Billings called two more names. "Cadet Blackburn, Mamie Brown." Mamie waddled up to the cadet. Her red dress was shorter behind than in front, and she seemed to be straining every seam. She giggled when the cadet asked her, "Just where did you come from?" Dressa frowned. The cadet should have been told that Mamie stood at the head of her class in scholarship, that she had won state and national speech contests, and that she was editor of the school paper Dressa hoped Bob would not show her any disrespect. She hoped he would not say something like that to gain the approval of the others in the room. She glanced over at him. He was more strikingly good looking than she had ever seen him. "It's a rare thing to find such a combination of outer paint and inner filling," she thought. Then he grinned at her. It sent a succession of tingley shivers down her spine, and she returned his grin shyly. The dean called two more names. "Cadet Ryan, Shanna Owens." Dressa looked toward the dean who seemed to repeat the names for her benefit. Shanna, but I thought . . . She wanted to say there had been some mistake, but she knew there had not. Irresponsible tears welled up in her eyes, and she could feel them tugging at her throat. She felt herself trembling uncontrolably. Her parted lips quivered, and then she turned pale and her body was still. Shanna squeezed Dressa's hand and smiled at her cunningly as she paraded by her, clinging prettily to the arm of Dressa's "miracle man." "So glad you could come, dear," she whispered. Bob grinned down at her, and her pride rebelled at the pounding of her heart. So this was the philosopher who liked to think in the dark. No wonder he had wanted her to leave the light off. ft had prevented his having to look at her face when he kissed her. She blinked and tried to smile at another cadet who walked over to her and took her hand. But she looked at his pointed chin and crooked nose and wished she had stayed home. page twenty-two BARNSTORMER (Continued from Page 1) his okay to tee off, he gave the ball a whale of a wallop. It sailed half way to the first green. Nubby looked over where I was standing with Stacey, and cocked an approving eyebrow. "What do you bet Hogan beats Hackett?" I asked Stacey. He looked at me like I was absolutely out of my head. "Brother, I'll take you up on that any old time. Have you seen Hogan's game today?" "Sure. Have you seen Hackett's?" "Well, not especially, but, Lord, man, Ben's game is gorgeous." "Fifty bucks?" "This is like taking candy from a baby. Fifty bucks it is." Needless to say, I was saying prayers I didn't know I could say; and Nubby didn't let me down After the end of the second round, he had the unbelievable score of 133 for thirty-six holes, and he was still going strong. Snapping like the crack of a whip, the word went around the galleries that a dark horse was giving Hogan an even run for the money. "By damn," one veteran purred softly to himself, "I didn't think we'd ever have another Bobby Jones pulled on us." Between the second and third rounds there was a rest of about an hour while the officials and managers of the tournament recorded scores and the players rested. In the club house lounge cigar and cigarette smoke shrouded the figures of the reporters as they bent over their typewriters hammering out the second round upset. Stacey and I were absorbing mint julips like a couple of blotters. There is no one on earth who can perspire like a fat man; and Stacey was more than a little inclined to be on the rotund side. With the potential subtraction of fifty bucks from our finances in the offing neither of us was personifying sweetness and light. "Still favor Hackett?" Stacey quizzed dubiously. "You followed the last round. What do you think?" "Not bad," he admitted grudgingly. "Not bad! Why you satchel-brained droon. He played the sweetest game of golf you've ever seen, and you know it." He nodded, "Like I said, not bad. But can he keep it up? That's worrying you too, and you know it." Stacey had me there. I'd gone off on a tangent for some guy I knew nothing about, except he'd had guts enough to enter the Open and winter circuit. "Maybe so," I said, "but I think he can. Certainly his nerves won't get him. I've talked to him, Stacey; and the kid's got a good head. My fifty bucks is safe." Turning slowly on his stool, Stacey stood up and stretched. Okay was all he said. I couldn't help feeling as he sauntered away that there was a great deal more that he wanted to say. I just kind of had the feeling that he knew something that he wasn't telling. About what, I had no idea and it made me uneasy. "Stacey," I called after him. He turned slowly and looked at me. "What's on your mind?" "That's what I want to ask you. You've got something up your sleeve. Now what is it?" Looking at me steadily for a couple of minutes, he rubbed his fleshy chin, and said, "You shouldn't have had that last mint julip. It's gone to your head." Then he left the room. All the racket the typewriters were making and the thick smoke got on my nerves, and 1 went out to find Nubby. I felt that I had to talk to him to make sure that everything was all right. If you've ever been around a golf course when there was a tournament going on you can get a pretty fair idea of what I was up against when I tried to find Nubby. The place was lousy with golfers, but not the one I wanted. To top it off, no one had seen him since the last of the second round. I guess I combed that place from the top balcony down to the furnace room. I looked everyplace but in the ladies' locker rooms, and I would have looked there, but I didn't think it would do any good. Just on a hunch, I went out in front of the club house to the parking lot. I didn't know if the kid had a car, or if he did what it would be like. But I always play my hunches. I was right on that one. Sitting in a little old Ford coupe of about 1932 vintage was Nubby. He was slumped behind the wheel staring into space, seeing and hearing nothing. He didn't look sick, just sunk. His hands lay listlessly in his lap, and his eyes had lost their keenness. So this was what Stacey had been driving at. The kid was all shot, and the last round was fifteen minutes away. When I went over to the car and opened the door, he didn't even acknowledge my presence. I climbed in beside him and slammed the door. His head turned slightly and he looked at me. "Mind if I join your day dreaming, Nubby?" He sighed heavily and said, "What do you want?" "Nothing. I was just wondering how you felt, that's all." "What do you care how I feel?" he asked sharply. I decided I might as well tell him that my benevolence was purely mercenary. "I've got ten fins on your sticks, chum; and I don't want it changing pockets. Get what I mean?" His mouth turned into a twisted grin. "Yeah, I get what you mean.It's too bad, fella, but those ten fins will have to change pockets." "What's up, kid?" He looked at me candidly. "I'm just not going to finish the tournament, that's all." I tried not to show the surprise I felt on my face. If I could get him to tell me the story, I thought I could talk him out of quitting. "Why not?" He put his strong broad hand on the wheel and pressed until the nails showed white. "The fight's not there any more gone to pot." He had a tough time with the words, as if his mouth were dry inside. "Why don't you tell me about it, Nubby? It kinda makes you feel better sometimes if you get it off your chest." "There isn't a lot to tell. You married?" I told him I wasn't. "Well, I am. Or I was. She's dead now. She died about an hour and a half ago and left me a son." His voice was flat and dull. "It doesn't do any good to say I'm sorry, but I'll say it anyway." That explained a lot of things. Why he was so anxious to get through with the tournament. Why he knew he would win. Now, why he wanted to quit. When you see someone you like get a kick in the teeth like that, you want to say something to make things right. You can't do it though. You say, I'm sorry, and have to let it go at that. Nubby went on talking. "We barnstormed through every amateur tournament in the whole cock-eyed country together. Half the time we weren't even sure of a place to sleep or a bite to eat, but she loved page twenty-three