The spectators groaned, for the only thing left, as it seemed, was to kick, and that meant defeat.
Just when the friends of Fardale were looking for the worst to happen, across the field there came a yell that was so strange and wild and shrill that it brought nearly everybody standing.
The cry came from the lips of Old Joe Crowfoot, who, wrapped in his red blanket, had appeared. At the old redskin’s side walked a youth wearing a bathrobe. His face was pale and firm, and there was a light of eagerness in his dark eyes.
A great shout went up from the crowd.
"Dick Merriwell!" roared two hundred voices. "Dick Merriwell!"
Jabez Lynch was with Tod Hubbard once more, and he exclaimed:
"Well, now, I wonder what they are going to do? Is it possible they’re going to run a sick man in there at the last moment? Ha! ha! ha! Well, of all the fool tricks I ever heard about! What do they imagine he can do? Now they will show him up!"
"He’s not going in," said Hubbard. "He’s shown himself just to have people yell for him."
Then they saw Dick Merriwell suddenly fling aside his bathrobe and run onto the field. And the sight of him caused, exclamations of wonder to break from the lips of nearly every one, for, instead of wearing the accustomed football uniform, Dick was dressed in a light running-suit, his legs and arms bare, and on his feet were running shoes, having, however, rubber cleats on the bottoms.
Everybody was standing now, and the excitement was intense. Scores were asking questions which no one seemed able to answer.