A SENSATION ON THE FIELD.
The day of the great football game between Harvard and Yale had arrived.
The hour approached.
Jarvis Field was ready for the great struggle. The white marks of the
gridiron were regularly and beautifully made.
The sun shone down from a clear sky. There was no breeze, but the air
was crisp, for all of the sunshine.
At either side the stands were filled; hundreds upon hundreds were
standing; hundreds upon hundreds were coming. A better day for the game
could not have been ordered, and spectators were turning out in force.
Harvard students were there in a body. They flaunted the crimson and
sung their songs of glee. Their faces were radiant, and they were
confident of victory.
Yale had sent her representatives by hundreds. They wore the blue, they
waved the blue, they cheered for the blue.
Everywhere the blue and the crimson could be seen. Everybody was
partisan; everybody had a favorite.
Back of the dark mass of human beings, beyond the limit of the field,
were the trees and the great buildings with their many windows, upon
which the sunshine glinted coldly.
Policemen kept back the standing mass of spectators, or those in the
rear would have pressed those in advance forward upon the field.
A few of those in the rear had obtained boxes or stools, upon which they
were standing in order to look over the heads of those before them. A
wagon was covered with spectators; they were standing on the spokes of
the wheels.
The excitement and the eager anticipation was most intense. It betrayed
itself on every face.
Not far from the point where the mass of Yale blue was thickest two lads
were talking. One wore the blue, the other wore the crimson. The first
was Sport Harris, and the other was Rolf Harlow, who had been forced to
leave Harvard after being exposed as a crooked gambler.
"Every dollar is up," said Harlow, gleefully. "We are in to win a good
pile on this game if what you say is right."
"What I have told you is straight."
"Marline can't play?"
"No."
"Ott is a poor man?"
"Sure."
"And there is no chance that Frank Merriwell will be run in?"
"Bah!" exclaimed Harris, disdainfully. "Merriwell is a dead duck at
Yale. He'll never count in anything more. He is an outcast now. What do
you think?--he's universally rated as a coward."
"Oh, say!" exclaimed Harlow; "that's too much! You don't expect me to
believe that about Frank Merriwell?"
"Believe it or not, it's true."
"I don't understand how it could come about, for you and I know there is
not a drop of cowardly blood in Merriwell. Confound him! If there had
been, some things that have happened would not have taken place."
"Circumstances have conspired to put him where he is, and he'll never
dig out. He has a few enemies who will take care to keep him down, now
he is down."
"Well, I'm glad he's not on the team. We'll make a fat thing out of
this, old man."
"Yes, I gave you every dollar I could raise, so you must know I am dead
sure Harvard will win. If, by any fluke, Yale should happen to pull off
this game I shall be busted."
"Same here."
"In that case, we'd have to stand in together and catch some suckers.
We've done it before."
"And been exposed in it by that cursed Merriwell! Oh, I'd like to get a
good rap at that fellow! He has spoiled a number of good, soft things
for me since we first met."
"You can't hate him more than I do."
"I don't know about that; but he has been a lucky devil. I'm glad he's
not going to play for Yale to-day."
"He couldn't win the game alone."
"No, but it would be Yale's luck to win if Merriwell played. He has been
a mascot for Yale in almost everything."
Harris believed this, for he remembered how many times Frank Merriwell
had been the instrument by which Yale had snatched victory from
apparent, certain defeat.
Suddenly a band struck up, and out upon the field came the Harvard
eleven on the trot. What a cheer went up--what a wild roar of greeting!
For the moment it seemed that the crimson was everywhere. The band
hammered away, and the blood was leaping in the veins of the thousands
of spectators.
Harvard immediately took a bit of preliminary practice.
"They are the boys to polish Yale off this year!" laughed Harlow. "It's
going to be a snap for Harvard."
"I believe it," grinned Harris. "We'll have money to burn after this
game."
Suddenly another kind of a cheer rent the air, and now the blue was
waving everywhere. Onto the field came the Yale eleven at a sharp trot.
Harris and Harlowe laughed and nudged each other with their elbows.
"See the little lambs!" chuckled the sport.
"Coming to the slaughter!" grinned Rolf.
"Too bad!"
"It's a shame!"
"I feel for them."
"I expect to feel for that money. Where's Ott?"
"Why, he's right over--over there--where the dickens is Ott?"
"Can't you see him?"
"Can't seem to, but he must be there. Yes, there he is with the group
out to the right."
"Those are the substitutes. Why is he with them?"
Harris stared, quite as much puzzled as Harlow, for he had understood
that Ott was to be put in as full-back for Yale at the very start.
"It must be--it can't be--it can't be Marline is going to try it!"
"You said he couldn't step on his foot."
"He can't."
"Then he isn't in it."
"Of course not."
"Who is?"
"You tell!"
Then, all at once, Harlowe caught Harris by the shoulder, and, pointing
toward the field, almost screamed in his ear:
"Ten thousand furies! Look there--look there, you blunderer! See
him--see that tall, straight fellow?"
"Where?--who?"
"Where? Who? Right there, with the Yale captain--with Forrest! By all
the living fiends, it is----"
"Frank Merriwell!" gasped Harris.
"Yes, and he is going to play full-back for Yale! He'll hoodoo Harvard!
Yale will win this game!"