The Harvard quarterback held out his arm with a slight gesture of impatience. Davies took the hand and studied the bit of ribbon. Of course, it wasn't—but didn't it beat the devil how everything had worked out this day? Either that or he was suddenly losing his mind. Perhaps that was it. He had brooded so long over the affair of his youth that at last it had affected his brain.
The ribbon was wet—and soiled—and—this, he thought, could easily be his imagination—it was actually a trifle faded. But it did look strangely familiar, strangely like the one that a dear, trusting girl had tied about his wrist, and that he had sealed there with a kiss twenty years before. It was infernally peculiar. That was all there was to it. Infernally peculiar!
Davies straightened up, to find the Harvard quarterback at the point of exasperation.
"I don't blame you for thinking me out of my mind," sympathized C. R. D. "And I may be, for all I know. So many ungodly things have happened to me to-day. But—if it's not being too personal—where did you get that bow? From your sweetheart?"
There was almost a contemptuous note in Broadhurst's voice as he started to button his shirt. "No! My mother."
Davies felt his knees give way beneath him and he dropped down heavily upon the bench, staring up at the Harvard quarterback, unbelievingly. "Your—your mother?"
"Yes. What's wrong with that?" demanded Broadhurst, picking up collar and tie. "It's a good-luck charm," he explained curtly; then he added with a smile: "And it sure worked to-day!"
"A—a good-luck charm?" echoed Davies weakly. "A good-luck—— Say! Your mother—I mean, is your father—living?"
The Harvard quarterback paused in his tying of a four-in-hand to shoot a puzzled glance at the evidently insane stranger. "No, sir. He died before I was born."
"Oh, I see," Davies mumbled, conscious of his heart thumping in his ears. "But your name—Broadhurst? Was that your father's?"