“Jim is the victim of some trick,” said Dick. “I’m sure of that. He would never leave us in the lurch this way, without some word of what was keeping him away, of his own free will.”
Suddenly a murmur of excitement ran through the crowd. Far away, over the Charles, winging in from the distant ocean, something in the sky was causing heads to turn and necks to crane toward it.
“By George!” cried Bowen, the Harvard captain, running over to the Yale bench, “that’s a pretty sight! One of the aviators from Squantum, I suppose, coming over to see the game. See him come down!”
The two Yale men, hardly interested in such a sight now, though at any other time they would have been as enthusiastic as Bowen himself, looked up apathetically, and saw a biplane volplaning gracefully to earth from a great height. It held a single figure, in dark clothes, and it was evidently the aviator’s intention to land in the part of the enormous Harvard field set aside for the use of motorists. There was plenty of room there, and it was impossible for the crowd to hamper his descent. Bowen led the way, and Brady and Dick Merriwell followed him, more for something to do than because they were really deeply interested. But in a moment their apathy was turned to joyous excitement.
They could see the aviator plainly now. He wore neither goggles nor cap, and, as he came nearer, they saw, to their intense amazement, that it was Jim Phillips himself, who was speeding toward them through the air.
He brought the machine gracefully to a stop, and, leaping out, was at once beset by questions.
“I was kidnaped,” he cried, seeking to explain in a word. “They thought I couldn’t get away—never dreamed that I knew how to run one of these machines. So they didn’t watch except in the distance. It was easy to jump this machine and get over here. Am I in time for the game?”
There was no time for further explanations. Ten minutes later, with just five minutes to spare for Jim to warm up with Brady, Yale’s sophomore star was in his uniform and on the field, and the Yale team, overjoyed by his opportune appearance, was doubly determined to reward his pluck and skill with such support that the victory was sure to be his.
Yale was first to the bat, as the visiting team, and when Briggs, the famous Harvard pitcher, who was relied upon by all the crimson rooters to check the victorious career of Jim Phillips, wound up to deliver the first ball to Tom Sherman, veteran of three series against Harvard, a mighty cheer from the crowd on the Harvard side of the field rent the air. The first ball was a perfect strike, cutting clean across the plate with a sharp, jumping break, that made Dick Merriwell clap his hands softly.
“He’s a real pitcher,” he said, leaning back in his seat on the bench.