ck---- 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?"

This question was almost too much for the latest Harvard hero. He spun
his locker door shut with a bang. "Why certainly!" Then, wheeling
upon his questioner, he asked: "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I--I thought perhaps your mother might have married again and that
you--you took the name of your--your stepfather," hazarded Davies.

"See here. I don't know what you're driving at, but I don't like your
insinuations. My mother was married only once, and she----"

"Listen!" broke in Davies excitedly. "If I'm not badly mistaken, your
real name's Carrington R. Davies. I mean--perhaps not Carrington
R.--but Davies anyway!"

"You don't know what you're talking about. My name's Carrington
Nubbins Broadhurst!"

"Carrington Nubbins. It is! Well, why didn't you say so? But you're
all wrong on the last name. Where's your mother? I've got to see her.
Why, confound it, old boy, I'm your father!"

Five palpitating seconds of electrifying silence followed Davies'
fervent outburst. Then C. R. D. spoke again, in a voice that was husky
with pent-up emotion and the shock of it all.

"Where's your mother? I've been twenty years trying to find her. Oh,
God, this is wonderful! You--my son!"

Still the young man who went by the name of Broadhurst stood,
unspeaking, undecided as to what to make of this rabidly serious
personage who, not alone satisfied with claiming prestige for
performing a gridiron feat similar to his, was now trying to claim a
part in his parentage.

"It was twenty years ago," explained Davies appealingly, "almost to the
day, when, just before the game with Yale, I met your mother--met her
in a secluded spot under the stands. There was a cold rain falling,
and I can remember how we pressed up close against the stands to keep
from getting soaked. And she took that little crimson bow from about
her neck and tied it around my wrist. I can even recall exactly what
she said. It was, 'Here, take this--it's your token of good luck.'"
Davies' voice broke at this and tears glazed the eyes of even the
Harvard quarterback.

"I--I guess there must be something