“Now they’re lined up. Now—
“Oh! Oh!” There came a sudden change in the announcer’s voice. “Something’s happening down there. A player comes racing onto the field. He’s leaping at some one. Looks like the Red Rover. It is the Red Rover! What do you make of that? Two men of Old Midway fighting it out before seventy thousand witnesses!
“Now a tall youth in black leaps in. They’re piling up. What a scrap!”
In the corner of a room up there on Passage Island Tony and Spike stirred uneasily. Johnny leaned far forward as if he would drag more words from the radio. But for a time it was still. Deep silence fell in the room. Drew Lane, keeping a wary eye on his prisoners, waited for more.
The thing that had happened there on Soldiers’ Field was scarcely to be credited. Tom Howe, who had appointed himself bodyguard for the Red Rover, had been seated on the bench near the door leading from Old Midway’s dressing rooms. A youth in a brand new uniform had walked out from that door, had stood quite still for a moment, studying the field.
“Looking for some one,” Tom told himself. Then he got a good look at the man’s face, and caught his breath. This fellow seemed old for an under-graduate. There was about that face a suggestion of long nights and dissipation such as one does not see topping a varsity football uniform.
“Looks like a tin horn gambler!” Tom rose slowly to his feet.
Next instant the stranger went trotting toward the field. It was a nervous trot. Nothing nervous about the man that followed him, Tom Howe.
Of a sudden, as he neared the group of players, the man in the football suit, flashing a knife, leaped at Red Rodgers.
Tom Howe was light and quick. With a panther-like leap he was upon the mysterious assassin.