“And you, Tony!” He pointed a finger. “You kidnaped that Berley Todd, a defenseless girl, because you could, and because you thought you could pull down twenty extra grand for yourself.
“She’ll be cheering on the side lines.” He laughed a happy laugh. “That little girl will be cheering for the Red Rover, the best sport that ever lived. And you fellows are going to sit right in this room, getting the radio report and hearing yourselves go broke play by play. Play by Play!”
CHAPTER XXXII
“70,000 WITNESSES”
As Johnny listened to Drew Lane’s rapid-fire report of events and their outcomes, he realized that he had played no small part in the breaking up of a notorious band of gamblers and the thwarting of their plans.
“More luck than skill on my part,” he whispered to himself.
Just then a thought struck him with the force of a blow. What if the gamblers’ plans had not been thwarted after all? Had Drew Lane talked too soon? How could they know that the Red Rover had reached the city safely? Hour by hour, with monotonous regularity the radio reported: “Still missing.” Was he still missing? Would he fail to appear when the team lined up for the kick-off?
“We’ll know that soon enough.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Twenty minutes more, and then—” He took a long breath.
“It means so much!” He all but prayed.
Then again doubt assailed him. Suppose the Red Rover had reached the city; suppose he did line up with his team? He had been away from practice for days; had missed all the elaborate plans made for this game of games. He had not lived as players live who are training for a major event. “And every one feels that if he were only there the game would be won before the kick-off!” He fairly groaned.
Once again he glanced at the clock. “Fifteen minutes to go.”
With nervous fingers he snapped on the radio.
“Here we are,” the announcer was saying. “The seats are rapidly filling up. The aisles are packed. What a picture! Gay sport costumes; bright banners; pennants waving; bands playing. Listen!”
Out from the radio came the stirring notes of a march.
“There! There!” the announcer shouted into the microphone. “They’re coming out now. The players are coming on the field. There’s Old Midway. Number twenty-one, Masters, the giant fullback; eighteen, Dwyer, right half.”
Johnny caught his breath. Was it known by now? Would Red come upon the field? His number was twenty. Would he hear it?
“Twenty-eight, Sullivan, the slim quarterback,” the announcer recited. “Seventeen, Clarke, the center; and now Johnson, the left half, who as you know, replaces the famous All-American star, Red Rodgers.”
Johnny heard no more. His hopes sank. From the corner came an exultant whisper.
But the whisper came too soon. Jimmie Drury, the slender reporter from the News, had carried the Red Rover and his diminutive companion, Berley Todd, speedily and safely from the enchanted isle back to the city. After landing in an open field close to the city, they tramped into the suburbs and registered under assumed names at a small hotel. Jimmie made no effort to get in touch with his paper. In his pocket he carried a story that would have made the first page in every newspaper of the land. “The Red Rover has been found. He is safe. He will play.” He could see it across the page in glaring letters.
The story was not told. Jimmie was loyal, loyal to the core. Drew Lane had told him what to do. He would do it, cost what it might.
“These men,” Drew had said sternly, “must not know. They must pay in full for their greed and for their cowardly deeds.”
“And they shall pay!” Jimmie had agreed. So it came about that just as the ball was being placed for the kick, a youth whose shining new suit bore the number twenty came trotting out to say a word to the referee, then to tap number fourteen on the back and to mumble apologetically:
“Sorry, Johnson. Better luck next time!”
It was the Red Rover.
From the vast throng there came a sound like the wind flowing through the tops of a thousand trees. They had seen that number. Were they to believe their eyes?
The sigh, the whisper, grew to a shout. Then the sons and daughters of Old Midway leaped to their feet and such a cheer rent the air as was echoed back again and again by the distant skyscrapers.
Hearing this, Red Rodgers felt a chill rise up his spine. They had seen him. They expected so much.
“And if I lose,” he murmured low, “if I lose!”
He set his teeth hard. He could not, he must not lose!
On far away Passage Island Johnny Thompson and Drew Lane heard the shout that, growing in volume, came welling forth from the radio like the increasing roar of a raging sea. They heard it and understood. And from the corner where the kidnapers sat there came again a low groan.
At this moment Johnny was tempted to feel sorry for these men who had lost so much. “And yet,” he told himself, “a week ago they were riding in powerful cars purchased by crooked money. They wore diamonds. Nothing was too good for their ladies; furs, silks, jewels. They denied themselves nothing. Then, that they might win still greater wealth, they kidnaped a boy who had nothing, who was working his way through college.
“At the same time they snatched a defenseless girl. These they would have murdered had it served their purpose. They know no mercy. They deserve none. They—”
“Look!” came the announcer’s shout from the radio. “Look! There’s the Red Rover! Can you beat that? You can’t even tie it! He was kidnaped, as you know, several days ago. The country has been gone over with a fine-tooth comb. They couldn’t find him. Every detective in the country was on the trail of the abductors. And now he walks calmly out on the field to take his place. It can’t be the Red Rover. It must be his ghost. And yet—yes, it is!
“Listen to that crowd roar! They’re standing up. All over the stadium they’re on their feet. Even Northern is applauding. Good sports! What a game this is going to be!”
And it was; such a game as one witnesses but once in a lifetime. And yet, as Drew Lane and Johnny Thompson sat there in that room on Passage Island, looking away now and then to the tossing waters of Lake Superior, listening always with all their ears, they sank lower and lower in their chairs. Something seemed to be wrong. The Red Rover could not get going. Midway’s hopes had been centered on him. The team had been built around him. A strong offensive team, able to charge the line, to block and to run; yet always as he followed through the opening made for him, some one from the opposing team broke through and downed him. Sometimes they smeared him for a loss.
Red could not understand this himself. Had the opposing players schooled themselves so thoroughly in defensive tactics that no man could go through for a touchdown? In the days away from his team had he grown soft? He hated those kidnapers with a bitter hate; was tempted even to hate old Ed, the scout, Berley Todd and Drew Lane.
“Ah, no!” he grumbled to himself once, as he lay sprawled upon the turf during “time out.” “‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves that we are underlings.’ I’ll blame no other one than myself. I’m not so good. But this once I must win. I must! I must!”
But could he? On the defense his team acquitted itself well. During the first half not a touchdown was made on either side.
Then, at the very beginning of the second half catastrophe befell them. Midway kicked off. Northern carried the ball to Midway’s forty-yard line. A forward pass was completed, a second following in quick succession. One mad plunge, and Northern went over for a touchdown. Their fans went mad. The kick for an extra point was successful. The score stood Northern 7. Midway 0.
Gloom, deep and ominous, settled down upon the room out there on far away Passage Island. Gloom, but not for all. From the corner came in a loud whisper:
“Tony. We are going broke play by play. Just like he said, play by play.” This was followed by a hoarse chuckle that made Johnny’s blood boil. If Drew Lane heard it he did not show it by so much as the flicker of an eyelash.
“Does he believe that the Red Rover can still go through to victory?” Johnny asked himself.
Then, as if what appeared almost sure defeat were not enough, at the middle of the third quarter one more terrible thing happened.
To Drew and Johnny it appeared all the more terrible since, receiving it on the radio, they could but half understand what was going on. “Now play will be resumed,” the announcer droned. “The men are taking their positions. Northern has the ball on their own forty-five yard line.
“The crowd is on its toes. Seventy thousand people. Bright blankets, fluttering flags. Plenty of color out here. Plenty of noise.
“Marvelous day. Clear as glass. Not a cloud. Snappy. Just the kind of day that makes them fight.
“Now they’re lined up. Now—
“Oh! Oh!” There came a sudden change in the announcer’s voice. “Something’s happening down there. A player comes racing onto the field. He’s leaping at some one. Looks like the Red Rover. It is the Red Rover! What do you make of that? Two men of Old Midway fighting it out before seventy thousand witnesses!
“Now a tall youth in black leaps in. They’re piling up. What a scrap!”
In the corner of a room up there on Passage Island Tony and Spike stirred uneasily. Johnny leaned far forward as if he would drag more words from the radio. But for a time it was still. Deep silence fell in the room. Drew Lane, keeping a wary eye on his prisoners, waited for more.
The thing that had happened there on Soldiers’ Field was scarcely to be credited. Tom Howe, who had appointed himself bodyguard for the Red Rover, had been seated on the bench near the door leading from Old Midway’s dressing rooms. A youth in a brand new uniform had walked out from that door, had stood quite still for a moment, studying the field.
“Looking for some one,” Tom told himself. Then he got a good look at the man’s face, and caught his breath. This fellow seemed old for an under-graduate. There was about that face a suggestion of long nights and dissipation such as one does not see topping a varsity football uniform.
“Looks like a tin horn gambler!” Tom rose slowly to his feet.
Next instant the stranger went trotting toward the field. It was a nervous trot. Nothing nervous about the man that followed him, Tom Howe.
Of a sudden, as he neared the group of players, the man in the football suit, flashing a knife, leaped at Red Rodgers.
Tom Howe was light and quick. With a panther-like leap he was upon the mysterious assassin.
Down they went. Rolling over and over, they strove for possession of the knife. Now Tom had it. Now it was wrenched from his grasp. Now he gripped the other’s wrist. He was fighting with the power of desperation, this stranger. Prison bars yawned for him. He knew prison. He had been there.
Now by sheer strength he forced Tom’s arm back until the point of the knife was within an inch of Tom’s good right eye.
“Let me go!” hissed the dark assassin.
“Never!” Tom set his teeth hard.
All this happened in the space of seconds. Then a terrific blow from the right sent the dark stranger rolling over the earth. His knife went spinning high in the air.
The Red Rover had seen. He had understood. He had struck.
Leaping once more upon the stranger, Tom dragged him to his feet. “You would!” he hissed. “One more of those ‘seventy thousand witnesses’ stunts. But it don’t go. The hoosegow for you!”
He led him from the field.
Just how much of all this the vast throng understood would be hard to say.
All that Drew and Johnny got over the radio was a brief account of a more or less mysterious fight on the gridiron. They were shrewd enough to understand that an attempt had been made upon the Red Rover’s life and that quick-witted Tom Howe had saved the day.
“Saved!” Johnny breathed. “Saved! But the score is still 7 to 0. Wonder how a football player behaves after an attempt has been made upon his life.” He was to see.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE FLEA FLICKER
“Paying me a compliment,” Red grumbled to himself, as the third quarter ended with no success. “Tried to kill me, that tough egg sent by Angelo and his gang. As if I’d do them any harm playing football!” He was thoroughly disgusted with himself. What was the trouble? He could not get going, that was all. And the game was slipping away, with one more quarter to play.
The fourth quarter began as the third had ended, with the two teams driving one another back and forth across the field. Eleven precious minutes of play passed into eternity. Still no score. And then came a change.
From time to time, as the teams moved toward the center of the field, Red had stolen a glance at Berley Todd. She had not been home. Apparently this game was, for the time, all that mattered. As the young football star thought of this a lump rising in his throat all but choked him.
Somehow Berley had secured a place directly behind the rail in the first tier of seats. Every time Red stole a glance at her he found her sitting there, sober-faced, tense, expectant. She did not leap and scream as others did. She did not join in the shouting.
“I’d almost say she was praying,” Red told himself. “Wonder if any one ever prayed at a football game?”
Surely if ever there was occasion for sober thoughts over a ball game, this was the time. A thousand, five thousand, perhaps ten thousand foolish men had been tricked into gambling on what they believed to be a sure thing.
“We don’t care for them,” Drew Lane had said. “If they were the only ones to suffer they should lose. But if they do lose, their families will suffer; women and children. So Red, you must fight! Fight! Fight!”
He had fought. But all in vain. Somehow he could not get into the game. The very weight of responsibility seemed to crush the spirit out of him.
Then, four minutes before the end, a strange thing happened. He was beyond the center of the field on the enemy’s territory. There was “time out.” He heard a thin voice calling. It was Berley Todd.
“Red,” she whispered hoarsely as he came near, “why don’t you try the Flea Flicker?” Then she smiled. It was her first smile that day.
There was something about that smile that lifted the heavy burden from Red’s shoulders.
“The Flea Flicker. Why not?”
He had described the play to her while on one of their wild boat rides before the island.
“The Flea Flicker. Four minutes to play. Why not? Why not forget all but the game? Play for the mere sport of it? Football is sport, not business. The Flea Flicker, that’s it!”
He joined his team in a huddle. “The Flea Flicker” was whispered from man to man. A ripple of mirth passed over the weary fighters.
Old Midway had the ball. It was the fourth down. Four minutes to play. If they lost the ball they might never regain it. This play was a complicated one. What did it matter? Win or lose; the Flea Flicker.
Signals were called. Masters, the fullback, dropped to the rear in position for a place kick. Red sank to his knee as if to receive the ball.
The play was on. The ball was snapped, not to Red but to Masters. Northern players charged. Dwyer, the right half, ignoring his man, stood up, facing Masters. Red ran wide to the right. Masters pitched the ball to Dwyer. Dwyer tossed it to Red and he was away.
It was strange, the feeling that came over Red Rodgers as he leaped forward. He was not on a football field dodging men, but on the water, heading into waves that threatened to swamp his frail craft. There was one to the right, a huge one. This way out. Here were two at the left. A quick turn here, a short twist there, and he was on again. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five yards, he raced forward. The field was clear now. The crowd was on its feet. They were shouting themselves hoarse. The miracle had happened. The Red Rover, their idol, was away at last.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” they screamed. And at last Berley Todd joined in the cry. “Touchdown! Touchdown!”
Touchdown it was. Then the crowd waited, breathless, for the kick that promised a tie or defeat; the crowd waited and lost, for the ball went wild. The score stood Northern 7; Midway 6.
“Two minutes to play,” Red muttered to himself. “Two minutes are enough for any man’s touchdown.” But were they?
Midway called for “time out.” As the team dropped to the ground one word was passed from man to man.
A moment’s rest and they were up again. A hush fell over the great throng as Northern sent the ball soaring high.
Watching as a hunter watches a hawk, Red measured the distance, dashed a clean twenty yards, gathered the ball in his arms and, never pausing, sped on toward the goal line.
It was strange. Only half conscious of his opponents, he passed them one by one. As one leaped at his feet he swerved and sagged far over. The man missed. Now three were bunched against him. They formed a pinwheel. He was at the center of the wheel. They whirled round and round like sparks. They flew to right and left of him. Again he sped on. One man remained. Red leaped at him, then stopped dead. The man went on his face.
Then, with the thundering roar of a victory mad throng beating on his ears, he fell across the line for a touchdown.
Johnny Thompson and Drew Lane, away up on Passage Island, heard all this, and greeted one another with a solemn handclasp.
“They try for the extra point,” the announcer called. What did it matter? The game was won.
“It’s good! What matter? The score stands 13 to 7. One minute to play. Time out. The Red Rover is leaving the game.”
What did it matter? The game was won.
* * * * * * * *
Tom Howe’s mop-up men did their work well. Angelo the impostor and his band of crooks and kidnapers were sent to jail; not, however, until their bank accounts were exhausted, their safety boxes emptied, paying back the money they had hoped to steal.
With a pilot imported from Houghton, Johnny rode in the big amphibian with Drew’s prisoners back to the city. Drew rode alone in the red racer.
As for Red, a cold shower woke him from the half-trance that had carried him to victory in one of the famous football games of history. Two days later he found himself sitting before a small fire in his own room, meditating on the future. Berley Todd had urged him to visit her in her father’s palatial home. Would he go? She had asked him to go with her to Isle Royale in the good old summer time.
“Isle Royale,” he murmured. “The land of dreams.” Would he go?
The Grand Old Man was leaving football forever. Should he, too, leave and go back to the steel mill? Surely life was strange.
A book lay on his lap. It was “Burton’s Analytic Geometry.” He must dig in. He dug.
The morning after his return Drew Lane met Jimmie Drury. “Jimmie,” he demanded, “why did you play the Galloping Ghost?”
“How do you know I did?” Jimmie grinned.
“Come on. Quit your kidding! Own up!”
“Well, you see,” Jimmie’s smile broadened, “it happened that I was at a masquerade party the night the Red Rover was kidnaped. I had dressed as a ghost. I was on my way home when the thing broke. Got out of my taxi and went after the story, just as I was. When the myth about the Galloping Ghost got out, I decided to continue the part. You know the rest.”
“Yes, I know. You helped a lot.”
“In a case like that,” said Jimmie soberly, “every man of us must do his best.”
So the story ends. There will be another called Whispers at Dawn. Will Drew Lane, Johnny, and the others walk through these pages? Who can say? Time moves swiftly. Yesterday’s hero is forgotten to-day. To-morrow brings another. Read and see.
Transcriber’s Notes
- Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.
- Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.
- In the text versions, included italics inside _underscores_ (the HTML version replicates the format of the original.)