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.