THE FLEA FLICKER
“Paying me a compliment,” Red grumbled to himself, as the third quarter
ended with no success. “Tried to kill me, that tough egg sent by Angelo
and his gang. As if I’d do them any harm playing football!” He was
thoroughly disgusted with himself. What was the trouble? He could not get
going, that was all. And the game was slipping away, with one more
quarter to play.
The fourth quarter began as the third had ended, with the two teams
driving one another back and forth across the field. Eleven precious
minutes of play passed into eternity. Still no score. And then came a
change.
From time to time, as the teams moved toward the center of the field, Red
had stolen a glance at Berley Todd. She had not been home. Apparently
this game was, for the time, all that mattered. As the young football
star thought of this a lump rising in his throat all but choked him.
Somehow Berley had secured a place directly behind the rail in the first
tier of seats. Every time Red stole a glance at her he found her sitting
there, sober-faced, tense, expectant. She did not leap and scream as
others did. She did not join in the shouting.
“I’d almost say she was praying,” Red told himself. “Wonder if any one
ever prayed at a football game?”
Surely if ever there was occasion for sober thoughts over a ball game,
this was the time. A thousand, five thousand, perhaps ten thousand
foolish men had been tricked into gambling on what they believed to be a
sure thing.
“We don’t care for them,” Drew Lane had said. “If they were the only ones
to suffer they should lose. But if they _do_ lose, their families will
suffer; women and children. So Red, you must fight! Fight! _Fight!_”
He _had_ fought. But all in vain. Somehow he could not get into the game.
The very weight of responsibility seemed to crush the spirit out of him.
Then, four minutes before the end, a strange thing happened. He was
beyond the center of the field on the enemy’s territory. There was “time
out.” He heard a thin voice calling. It was Berley Todd.
“Red,” she whispered hoarsely as he came near, “why don’t you try the
Flea Flicker?” Then she smiled. It was her first smile that day.
There was something about that smile that lifted the heavy burden from
Red’s shoulders.
“The Flea Flicker. Why not?”
He had described the play to her while on one of their wild boat rides
before the island.
“The Flea Flicker. Four minutes to play. Why not? Why not forget all but
the game? Play for the mere sport of it? Football is sport, not business.
The Flea Flicker, that’s it!”
He joined his team in a huddle. “The Flea Flicker” was whispered from man
to man. A ripple of mirth passed over the weary fighters.
Old Midway had the ball. It was the fourth down. Four minutes to play. If
they lost the ball they might never regain it. This play was a
complicated one. What did it matter? Win or lose; the Flea Flicker.
Signals were called. Masters, the fullback, dropped to the rear in
position for a place kick. Red sank to his knee as if to receive the
ball.
The play was on. The ball was snapped, not to Red but to Masters.
Northern players charged. Dwyer, the right half, ignoring his man, stood
up, facing Masters. Red ran wide to the right. Masters pitched the ball
to Dwyer. Dwyer tossed it to Red and he was away.
It was strange, the feeling that came over Red Rodgers as he leaped
forward. He was not on a football field dodging men, but on the water,
heading into waves that threatened to swamp his frail craft. There was
one to the right, a huge one. This way out. Here were two at the left. A
quick turn here, a short twist there, and he was on again. Five, ten,
fifteen, twenty, twenty-five yards, he raced forward. The field was clear
now. The crowd was on its feet. They were shouting themselves hoarse. The
miracle had happened. The Red Rover, their idol, was away at last.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” they screamed. And at last Berley Todd joined in
the cry. “Touchdown! Touchdown!”
Touchdown it was. Then the crowd waited, breathless, for the kick that
promised a tie or defeat; the crowd waited and lost, for the ball went
wild. The score stood Northern 7; Midway 6.
“Two minutes to play,” Red muttered to himself. “Two minutes are enough
for any man’s touchdown.” But were they?
Midway called for “time out.” As the team dropped to the ground one word
was passed from man to man.
A moment’s rest and they were up again. A hush fell over the great throng
as Northern sent the ball soaring high.
Watching as a hunter watches a hawk, Red measured the distance, dashed a
clean twenty yards, gathered the ball in his arms and, never pausing,
sped on toward the goal line.
It was strange. Only half conscious of his opponents, he passed them one
by one. As one leaped at his feet he swerved and sagged far over. The man
missed. Now three were bunched against him. They formed a pinwheel. He
was at the center of the wheel. They whirled round and round like sparks.
They flew to right and left of him. Again he sped on. One man remained.
Red leaped at him, then stopped dead. The man went on his face.
Then, with the thundering roar of a victory mad throng beating on his
ears, he fell across the line for a touchdown.
Johnny Thompson and Drew Lane, away up on Passage Island, heard all this,
and greeted one another with a solemn handclasp.
“They try for the extra point,” the announcer called. What did it matter?
The game was won.
“It’s good! What matter? The score stands 13 to 7. One minute to play.
Time out. The Red Rover is leaving the game.”
What did it matter? The game was won.
* * * * * * * *
Tom Howe’s mop-up men did their work well. Angelo the impostor and his
band of crooks and kidnapers were sent to jail; not, however, until their
bank accounts were exhausted, their safety boxes emptied, paying back the
money they had hoped to steal.
With a pilot imported from Houghton, Johnny rode in the big amphibian
with Drew’s prisoners back to the city. Drew rode alone in the red racer.
As for Red, a cold shower woke him from the half-trance that had carried
him to victory in one of the famous football games of history. Two days
later he found himself sitting before a small fire in his own room,
meditating on the future. Berley Todd had urged him to visit her in her
father’s palatial home. Would he go? She had asked him to go with her to
Isle Royale in the good old summer time.
“Isle Royale,” he murmured. “The land of dreams.” Would he go?
The Grand Old Man was leaving football forever. Should he, too, leave and
go back to the steel mill? Surely life was strange.
A book lay on his lap. It was “Burton’s Analytic Geometry.” He must dig
in. He dug.
The morning after his return Drew Lane met Jimmie Drury. “Jimmie,” he
demanded, “why did you play the Galloping Ghost?”
“How do you know I did?” Jimmie grinned.
“Come on. Quit your kidding! Own up!”
“Well, you see,” Jimmie’s smile broadened, “it happened that I was at a
masquerade party the night the Red Rover was kidnaped. I had dressed as a
ghost. I was on my way home when the thing broke. Got out of my taxi and
went after the story, just as I was. When the myth about the Galloping
Ghost got out, I decided to continue the part. You know the rest.”
“Yes, I know. You helped a lot.”
“In a case like that,” said Jimmie soberly, “every man of us must do his
best.”
So the story ends. There will be another called _Whispers at Dawn_. Will
Drew Lane, Johnny, and the others walk through these pages? Who can say?
Time moves swiftly. Yesterday’s hero is forgotten to-day. To-morrow
brings another. Read and see.
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text—this e-text
is public domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.
--In the text versions, included italics inside _underscores_ (the HTML
version replicates the format of the original.)