t's not the point," insisted Davies, with a sense of giddy
bungling. "That's really not the point. I just mentioned it because
I--because I couldn't help thinking of it, that's all. I couldn't help
thinking of myself from the moment I saw you out there, free, with the
game at stake, making for the Yale goal. It was just like looking at a
moving picture of myself--twenty years ago. You'll pardon me,
Broadhurst, I know. Nothing's ever gripped me like that run of yours
this afternoon. Nothing!"

Davies was in the swing of things now. He had recovered from his
embarrassment and was pouring out his feelings in a flow of words which
tumbled over themselves to get expressed. Broadhurst was the one who
was embarrassed this time. He looked down at the floor and shifted his
feet awkwardly and tried to draw away his hand, but the stranger only
gripped it the tighter.

The Harvard quarterback shot a glance about the locker room, relieved
to see that no one appeared to be noticing them. Every one was
interested in his own business, anxious to get outside and join the
victory-crazed celebrators.

"I was with you every step of the way," Davies went on. "When you
slipped, I slipped. When you straight-armed the Yale man, I
straight-armed him, too. Everything you did all the way to the goal
line, I did. It was almost uncanny. Even when they tackled you as you
went over for a touchdown and pounded you into the mud--that's just
what happened to me. So I have you to thank more than to congratulate,
Broadhurst, for we both know what it means to have done our best for
the good old Crimson. And you have helped me to live over one of the
happiest, most thrilling moments of my life!"

The Harvard quarterback withdrew his hand. The stranger turned away to
hide eyes which brimmed with tears.

"I--I'm glad, sir," was all that Broadhurst could think of to say.

Davies stiffened, chagrined at himself for his show of feeling. He was
a silly, sentimental old fool, inflicting his childishness upon a
gentlemanly young fellow who was too kind and sportsmanlike to show
distaste or offense. But why should any one else be interested in his,
Carrington R. Davies' feelings, or the fact that, twenty years before,
he had scored a touchdown?

"Well, I'm keeping you from going out. I'll be taking leave," remarked
the All-American quarterback, backing off apologetically.

"Don't be in a hurry," Broadhurst said, reaching out for his dr