CHAPTER XXXI
“PLAY BY PLAY”
At one o’clock the next afternoon the cement seats of Soldiers’ Field, where seventy thousand spectators were to witness a football classic of unparalleled interest, began filling up. The place had been sold out for ten days. Even before the Red Rover vanished every ticket was gone. There were several reasons for this. It was a charity game; the entire net proceeds of the game were to be expended on the city’s needy. It was the great game of the year. The rivalry between Old Midway and Northern had ever been keen, never keener than now, for this game was to decide the championship of the conference. The Red Rover was to play, and it had been rumored abroad that this would be his last game, that he would not return to his squad in the following autumn. It was to be the Old Midway coach’s last game. He had definitely retired. And those who loved the Grand Old Man of football were legion.
So here they were gathering early. Some coming from afar had arrived early. Some, fearing that the place had been oversold, were hastening to secure their seats.
All morning there had been a whisper abroad. “The Red Rover will play to-day.” Thus the whisper ran. One heard it on the street corner, behind the counters in department stores, in the corner cigar store. When the over-curious rang up a newspaper office they were greeted by a curt denial. “We know nothing of it. Wish we did!” Bang! went the receiver. The phones of Old Midway’s office rang constantly. “No! No! No!” the patient clerks repeated over and over. “He has not returned to Old Midway.”
So over that great city expectancy hung like a thin cloud. And the early arrivals on the field whispered:
“Will he be here?”
* * * * * * * *
In the office beside the lighthouse on far away Passage Island sat Drew Lane and Johnny Thompson. Whatever else happened, they would not see the game. There were two others who would not see that game. Tony Piccalo and Spike O’Connor sat moodily in the far corner.
“It’s some time before the game,” Drew commented dryly, casting a significant glance at a radio that stood against the wall. “Just about time for a little story. You’ll be interested in this.” He turned to Johnny. “You’ve guessed at a part of it. Now it all may be told.
“You fellows—” He addressed himself to the others. “You fellows are not kidnapers by profession. Give the devil his dues. But for all that, the fellow who stoops to kidnaping in order that he may gain an end just once is lost, or should be. It’s the lowest crime on the docket, the least romantic, the most cowardly.