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?