A SENSATION ON THE FIELD.
The day of the great football game between Harvard and Yale had arrived. The hour approached.
Jarvis Field was ready for the great struggle. The white marks of the gridiron were regularly and beautifully made.
The sun shone down from a clear sky. There was no breeze, but the air was crisp, for all of the sunshine.
At either side the stands were filled; hundreds upon hundreds were standing; hundreds upon hundreds were coming. A better day for the game could not have been ordered, and spectators were turning out in force.
Harvard students were there in a body. They flaunted the crimson and sung their songs of glee. Their faces were radiant, and they were confident of victory.
Yale had sent her representatives by hundreds. They wore the blue, they waved the blue, they cheered for the blue.
Everywhere the blue and the crimson could be seen. Everybody was partisan; everybody had a favorite.
Back of the dark mass of human beings, beyond the limit of the field, were the trees and the great buildings with their many windows, upon which the sunshine glinted coldly.
Policemen kept back the standing mass of spectators, or those in the rear would have pressed those in advance forward upon the field.
A few of those in the rear had obtained boxes or stools, upon which they were standing in order to look over the heads of those before them. A wagon was covered with spectators; they were standing on the spokes of the wheels.
The excitement and the eager anticipation was most intense. It betrayed itself on every face.
Not far from the point where the mass of Yale blue was thickest two lads were talking. One wore the blue, the other wore the crimson. The first was Sport Harris, and the other was Rolf Harlow, who had been forced to leave Harvard after being exposed as a crooked gambler.
"Every dollar is up," said Harlow, gleefully. "We are in to win a good pile on this game if what you say is right."
"What I have told you is straight."
"Marline can't play?"
"No."
"Ott is a poor man?"
"Sure."
"And there is no chance that Frank Merriwell will be run in?"
"Bah!" exclaimed Harris, disdainfully. "Merriwell is a dead duck at Yale. He'll never count in anything more. He is an outcast now. What do you think?—he's universally rated as a coward."
"Oh, say!" exclaimed Harlow; "that's too much! You don't expect me to believe that about Frank Merriwell?"
"Believe it or not, it's true."
"I don't understand how it could come about, for you and I know there is not a drop of cowardly blood in Merriwell. Confound him! If there had been, some things that have happened would not have taken place."
"Circumstances have conspired to put him where he is, and he'll never dig out. He has a few enemies who will take care to keep him down, now he is down."
"Well, I'm glad he's not on the team. We'll make a fat thing out of this, old man."
"Yes, I gave you every dollar I could raise, so you must know I am dead sure Harvard will win. If, by any fluke, Yale should happen to pull off this game I shall be busted."
"Same here."
"In that case, we'd have to stand in together and catch some suckers. We've done it before."
"And been exposed in it by that cursed Merriwell! Oh, I'd like to get a good rap at that fellow! He has spoiled a number of good, soft things for me since we first met."
"You can't hate him more than I do."
"I don't know about that; but he has been a lucky devil. I'm glad he's not going to play for Yale to-day."
"He couldn't win the game alone."
"No, but it would be Yale's luck to win if Merriwell played. He has been a mascot for Yale in almost everything."
Harris believed this, for he remembered how many times Frank Merriwell had been the instrument by which Yale had snatched victory from apparent, certain defeat.
Suddenly a band struck up, and out upon the field came the Harvard eleven on the trot. What a cheer went up—what a wild roar of greeting!
For the moment it seemed that the crimson was everywhere. The band hammered away, and the blood was leaping in the veins of the thousands of spectators.
Harvard immediately took a bit of preliminary practice.
"They are the boys to polish Yale off this year!" laughed Harlow. "It's going to be a snap for Harvard."
"I believe it," grinned Harris. "We'll have money to burn after this game."
Suddenly another kind of a cheer rent the air, and now the blue was waving everywhere. Onto the field came the Yale eleven at a sharp trot.
Harris and Harlowe laughed and nudged each other with their elbows.
"See the little lambs!" chuckled the sport.
"Coming to the slaughter!" grinned Rolf.
"Too bad!"
"It's a shame!"
"I feel for them."
"I expect to feel for that money. Where's Ott?"
"Why, he's right over—over there—where the dickens is Ott?"
"Can't you see him?"
"Can't seem to, but he must be there. Yes, there he is with the group out to the right."
"Those are the substitutes. Why is he with them?"
Harris stared, quite as much puzzled as Harlow, for he had understood that Ott was to be put in as full-back for Yale at the very start.
"It must be—it can't be—it can't be Marline is going to try it!"
"You said he couldn't step on his foot."
"He can't."
"Then he isn't in it."
"Of course not."
"Who is?"
"You tell!"
Then, all at once, Harlowe caught Harris by the shoulder, and, pointing toward the field, almost screamed in his ear:
"Ten thousand furies! Look there—look there, you blunderer! See him—see that tall, straight fellow?"
"Where?—who?"
"Where? Who? Right there, with the Yale captain—with Forrest! By all the living fiends, it is——"
"Frank Merriwell!" gasped Harris.
"Yes, and he is going to play full-back for Yale! He'll hoodoo Harvard! Yale will win this game!"