The Galloping Ghost

  CHAPTER II WHISPERS IN THE NIGHT

  As Red Rodgers stretched his feet out before the tiny stove in his narrowroom, his brow wrinkled. Here was a situation for you! A football game tobe played to-morrow four or five hundred miles away. He laughed a silent,mirthless laugh.

  "Football," he whispered. He was surprised to find within his being acertain feeling of relief. He relaxed to the very tips of his toes."Football." He had seen a lot of it. Too much. This was his first year onthe varsity. Almost without willing it, or even realizing it, he hadbecome the central attraction of his team. He was the hub about which theoffense circled. His had been the power and the glory, the power to dashand beat, weave and wind his way to many a touchdown, the glory of thevictor.

  "The power and the glory." Little enough Red cared for glory. But power?Ah, yes! All his life he had striven for power, physical power for themost part. But he meant in the end to go forward, to succeed in life.

  Born and raised in a city of mills, he had, from the age of fourteen,played his little part in the making of steel. For three summers and atevery other available hour he had toiled at steel. Bare to the waist,brown, heat-burned, perspiring, he had dragged at long bars, raking awayat steel bars, but recently formed by rushing, crashing rollers, thatwere still smoking hot. Other hours he had spent on the gridiron. The onehelped the other. Struggling with steel, he had become like steelhimself, hard, elastic, resisting. As he went down the field men wererepelled from his Robot-like body as they might had he been a thing ofwhite-hot metal.

  And then had come his great opportunity. A quiet, solidly built man, withwrinkled face, bright eyes and tangled hair, had watched his high schoolfootball exploits from the sidelines. From time to time he had beckonedand had whispered: "Hold the ball closer to your body. Lean. Lean farover. Don't run for the sidelines. Break your way through."

  There had been an air of authority and knowledge not to be questionedabout this old man. Red had listened and had tried to follow the other'steaching.

  Then, one day during his senior year at Central High the old man hadtouched him on the arm and had pronounced magical words:

  "The university will need you."

  Red had thrilled at these words. He knew now, on the instant, that thiswas the "Grand Old Man" of football, the fairest, squarest coach thatever lived.

  It had been good to know that the university would need him, for long agohe had learned that in his upward climb he would need the university. Theuniversity had found him. He had found the university. In his freshmanyear, a cub, there had been bitter days and hours of triumph. But whythink of all that?

  With a restless motion he rose, took three steps, the extent of hiscabin, retraced them and sat down. "Like a beast in a cage!" he mutteredlow. "I'll not stand it!"

  He thought soberly: "No, this is not to be endured. Better the hard grindof football."

  But this girl in that other log-walled prison cell? His mind did a suddenflip-flop.

  "She's rich," he mused. "At least her father is. That crook said he was.She did not deny it." Red did not approve of rich people. They had toomuch, others too little. He thought still less of their children. Itmattered little to him that the sons and daughters of certain rich menhad endeavored to make friends with him since his success at football. Hecould not understand them, was puzzled by their ways, and wished quitesincerely that they would leave him alone.

  "Soft," he had said to his roommate, "that's what they are. Noexperiences worth having."

  "But this girl over there beyond the log wall," he said to himself now,"she's different. Got spunk. Stands up and defies them, she does, whenshe knows they are beasts, as all kidnapers are. Tells 'em she'll freezehere all winter rather than do the thing they want her to do. Nerve,that's what!"

  He was conscious of an invisible bond that bound his life to that of thegirl. "In the end we may fight it out together."

  The hour was late. Once again the drowsy warmth of this narrow cellsettled down upon him.

  "Football," he mused. "A tough business. Thousands screaming their lungsout, ten, twenty, thirty, forty thousand people losing their heads whileyou must keep yours. Wish this were the end, wish it were all over.Wish--"

  Once again, in the twinkling of an eye, his mood changed.

  "For all that," he muttered beneath his breath, "I've got to get away!"Leaping to his feet, he stood there, hard, straight, square, with purposewritten in every line of his well formed body. "To-morrow's game, that isnothing. But Saturday's game, that is everything. It is the end. Final,that's what it is. Defeat or victory, that's what it means. Thechampionship or nothing. And Prang, the Grand Old Man, says it depends onus!

  "That means me!" There came a stoop to his shoulders as if a load hadfallen upon them. "For the Grand Old Man, for the school that gave me achance, for my mother, for clean sport all over the world, I must escape.I must play. I must win. I must! Must! _Must!_"

  Yet, even as these words formed themselves into thought he seemed to hearothers. "On a narrow island within a bay. Icy water. Another largerisland. Fifteen, seventy-five, a hundred miles from shore. Superior nevergives up her dead." Of a sudden the boy cursed the school days when hehad neglected his study of geography. He saw it all now. Geography wastravel. And how could one find travel dull?

  "But travel!" Again that silent, mirthless laugh. "Who expects to travelas I have?"

  His thoughts were not finished. From somewhere had come a long, low,hissing sound. It was followed by a whisper:

  "Over here! Come close to the wall."

  "Must be that girl." His heart skipped a beat.

  "What did they take you for?" the whisper demanded.

  "I--I don't know."

  "Don't know?"

  "Fact."

  After that a great silence settled over the place. This Red could notunderstand. Why had she started the conversation if she did not expect tofinish it?

  "Oh, well," he told himself at last, "girls are queer anyway." He settledback comfortably in his place.

  Truth was, the girl suspected him of being a decoy placed there by thekidnapers. In the end she came to see that she had little to lose if sheconfided in a decoy.

  Again came her long-drawn signal, demanding attention. And after that:

  "Don't you want to escape?"

  "Never wanted anything half so much in my life!" Then in a sudden burstof confidence he told her of the game that was to be on Saturday, of theveteran coach's fatherly interest in his career, of his hopes, his fears,his secret ambitions. All this he poured into a not unwilling ear. Onlyhe did not tell her he was the far-famed "Red Rover." This he reservedfor the future.

  "Good!" the girl exclaimed, still in a whisper. "Then our purposes areone. We must join hands. Put her there! Shake on it!"

  This, considering that a log wall eight inches thick lay between them,was of course impossible. But they pledged themselves in pantomime.