“Twenty-eight, Sullivan, the slim quarterback,” the announcer recited. “Seventeen, Clarke, the center; and now Johnson, the left half, who as you know, replaces the famous All-American star, Red Rodgers.”
Johnny heard no more. His hopes sank. From the corner came an exultant whisper.
But the whisper came too soon. Jimmie Drury, the slender reporter from the News, had carried the Red Rover and his diminutive companion, Berley Todd, speedily and safely from the enchanted isle back to the city. After landing in an open field close to the city, they tramped into the suburbs and registered under assumed names at a small hotel. Jimmie made no effort to get in touch with his paper. In his pocket he carried a story that would have made the first page in every newspaper of the land. “The Red Rover has been found. He is safe. He will play.” He could see it across the page in glaring letters.
The story was not told. Jimmie was loyal, loyal to the core. Drew Lane had told him what to do. He would do it, cost what it might.
“These men,” Drew had said sternly, “must not know. They must pay in full for their greed and for their cowardly deeds.”
“And they shall pay!” Jimmie had agreed. So it came about that just as the ball was being placed for the kick, a youth whose shining new suit bore the number twenty came trotting out to say a word to the referee, then to tap number fourteen on the back and to mumble apologetically:
“Sorry, Johnson. Better luck next time!”
It was the Red Rover.
From the vast throng there came a sound like the wind flowing through the tops of a thousand trees. They had seen that number. Were they to believe their eyes?
The sigh, the whisper, grew to a shout. Then the sons and daughters of Old Midway leaped to their feet and such a cheer rent the air as was echoed back again and again by the distant skyscrapers.