Again it was Hogarty who was first through the ropes. Effortlessly he stooped and lifted that limp body and carried it across to the stool. They tried to stretch him back against the ropes behind him, and each time his head slumped forward over his knees.
Old Jerry turned toward Morehouse and choked––licked his lips and choked again. And Morehouse nodded his head dumbly.
“He––he’s gone!” he said.
Old Jerry sat and stared back at him as though he couldn’t understand. He remembered the bit of a red bow in his pocket then; he fumbled inside and found it. He remembered the eyes of the girl who had given it to him, too, that night when she had knelt at his knees. His old fingers closed, viselike, upon the fat man’s arm.
“But she told me to give him this,” he mumbled dully. “Why, she––she said for me to give him this, when he had Won.”
Morehouse stared at the bit of tinseled silk––stared up at Old Jerry’s face and back again. And 292 then he leaned over suddenly and picked it up. The next moment he was crowding out from behind the desk––was climbing into the ring.
Old Jerry saw him fling fiercely tense words into Hogarty’s face, and Hogarty stood back. He knelt before the slack body on the stool and tried to raise the head; he held the bit of bright web before him, but there was no recognition in Denny’s eyes. And the old man heard the plump reporter’s words, sob-like with excitement:
“She sent it,” he hammered at those deaf ears. “She sent it––she sent it––silk––a little bow of red silk!”
Then the whole vast house saw the change that came over that limp form. They saw the slack shoulders begin to go back; saw the dead-white face come up; they saw those sick eyes beginning to clear. And The Pilgrim smiled a little––smiled into Morehouse’s face.
“Silk,” he repeated softly. “Silk!” and then, as if it had all come back at once: “Silk––next to her skin!”