The Galloping Ghost | Page 3

fury. And Superior never gives up her dead."
There was something so sepulchral about these last words that the listening boy shuddered in spite of himself.
"On such an island there are people." The girl's tone was stubborn, defiant.
"There is no one." The tone of the speaker carried conviction. "In summer, yes. In winter, no. We are here alone."
"Then," said the girl, "I shall stay here until summer comes. Winter will soon be here. And 'if winter comes,'" she quoted, "'can spring be far behind?' "
"Very far."
There was a quiet cadence in the speaker's tone that sent chills coursing up Red Rodger's spine. At the same time he hardly suppressed a desire to shout:
"Bravo!" to the girl.
The closing of a door some seconds later told him that this was a cabin of at least two rooms and, strangely enough, between these rooms was no connecting door.
CHAPTER II
WHISPERS IN THE NIGHT
AS Red Rodgers stretched his feet out before the tiny stove in his narrow room, his brow wrinkled. Here was a situation for you! A football game to be 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 a certain 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 on the varsity. Almost without willing it, or even realizing it, he had become the central attraction of his team. He was the hub about which the offense circled. His had been the power and the glory, the power to dash and beat, weave and wind his way to many a touchdown, the glory of the victor.
"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 the most 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 at every other available hour he had toiled at steel. Bare to the waist, brown, heat-burned, perspiring, he had dragged at long bars, raking away at steel bars, but recently formed by rushing, crashing rollers, that were still smoking hot.
Other hours he had spent on the gridiron. The one helped the other. Struggling with steel, he had become like steel himself, hard, elastic, resisting. As he went down the field men were repelled from his Robot-like body as they might had he been a thing of white-hot metal.
And then had come his great opportunity.
A quiet, solidly built man, with wrinkled face, bright eyes and tangled hair, had watched his high school football exploits from the sidelines. From time to time he had beckoned and had whispered: "Hold the ball closer to your body. Lean. Lean far over. Don't run for the sidelines. Break your way through."
There had been an air of authority and knowledge not to be questioned about this old man. Red had listened and had tried to follow the other's teaching.
Then, one day during his senior year at Central High the old man had touched 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 this was the "Grand Old Man" of football, the fairest, squarest coach that ever lived.
It had been good to know that the university would need him, for long ago he had learned that in his upward climb he would need the university. The university had found him. He had found the university. In his freshman year, a cub, there had been bitter days and hours of triumph. But why think of all that? With a restless motion he rose, took three step, the extent of his cabin, retraced them and sat down. "Like a beast in a cave" he muttered low. "I'll not stand it!"
He thought soberly: "No, this is not to be endured. Better the hard grind of football"
But this girl in that other log-walled prison cell? His mind did a sudden flip-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 too much, others too little. He thought still less of their children. It mattered little to him that the sons and daughters of certain rich men had endeavored to make friends with him since his success at football. He could not understand them, was puzzled by their ways and wished quite sincerely that they would leave him alone.
"Soft," he had said to his roommate, "that's what they are. No experiences worth having."
"But this