The stew was good. The cabin was warm. The hour was late. When Red had emptied his bowl he sat back to nod drowsily.
“It’s good to be lazy and comfortable and to do nothing,” he murmured. It seemed to him now that he had somehow been drugged. Never before had he felt so little desire for action. “I wish those crooks would leave us alone,” he thought to himself. “I wish I could sleep for a week.”
But what was this? A voice sounded in the room, a strange voice. And what was this man saying?
“The listening world will be interested to know that while the football star, officially known as the Red Rover—”
“Red—Red Rover.” The boy sat up, quite awake now. “Why, that is the radio! They’re talking about me. And here I am listening in.”
“Yes,” the scout chuckled, “that’s Chicago. Haven’t listened to that station before, or I’d have known. Bet they’re broadcasting reports every hour.”
“About me?”
“Why not? You’re a star.”
“A star to-day; to-morrow a steel mill worker. What does one star more or less matter?”
For all that, he sat up and listened with increasing interest as the speaker told of all that was being done to apprehend the kidnapers and return the Rover to his team.