"I said I'd take it."
For one instant Hugo looked into his eyes. And in that instant the
captain saw a dark and flickering fury that filled him with fear. The
whistle blew. And then Hugo, to his astonishment, heard his signal.
Lefty was disobeying the captain. He felt the ball in his arms. He ran
smoothly. Suddenly he saw a dark shadow in the air. The captain hit him
on the jaw with all his strength. After that, Hugo did not think
lucidly. He was momentarily berserk. He ran into the line raging and
upset it like a row of tenpins. He raced into the open. A single man,
thirty yards away, stood between him and the goal. The man drew near in
an instant. Hugo doubled his arm to slug him. He felt the arm
straighten, relented too late, and heard, above the chaos that was
loose, a sudden, dreadful snap. The man's head flew back and he
dropped. Hugo ran across the goal. The gun stopped the game. But, before
the avalanche fell upon him, Hugo saw his victim lying motionless on the
field. What followed was nightmare. The singing and the cheering. The
parade. The smashing of the goal posts. The gradual descent of silence.
A pause. A shudder. He realized that he had been let down from the
shoulders of the students. He saw Woodman, waving his hands, his face a
graven mask. The men met in the midst of that turbulence.
"You killed him, Hugo."
The earth spun and rocked slowly. He was paying his first price for
losing his temper. "Killed him?"
"His neck was broken-in three places."
Some of the others heard. They walked away. Presently Hugo was standing
alone on the cinders outside the stadium. Lefty came up. "I just heard
about it. Tough luck. But don't let it break you."
Hugo did not answer. He knew that he was guilty of a sort of murder. In
his own eyes it was murder. He had given away for one red moment to the
leaping, lusting urge to smash the world. And killed a man. They would
never accuse him. They would never talk about it. Only Woodman, perhaps,
would guess the thing behind the murder--the demon inside Hugo that was
tame, except then, when his captain in jealous and inferior rage had
struck him.
It was night. Out of deference to the body of the boy lying in the
Webster chapel there was no celebration. Every ounce of glory and joy
had been drained from the victory. The students left Hugo to a solitude
that was more awful than a thousand scornful tongues. They thought he
would feel as they would feel about such an accident. They gave him
respect when he needed counsel. As he sat by himself, he thought that he
should tell them the truth, all of them, confess a crime and accept the
punishment. Hours passed. At midnight Woodman called.
"There isn't much to say, Hugo. I'm sorry, you're sorry, we're all
sorry. But it occurred to me that you might do something foolish--tell
these people all about it, for example."
"I was going to."
"Don't. They'd never understand. You'd be involved in a legal war that
would undoubtedly end in your acquittal. But it would drag in all your
friends--and your mother and father--particularly him. The papers would
go wild. You might, on the other hand, be executed as a menace. You
can't tell."
"It might be a good thing," Hugo answered bitterly.
"Don't let me hear you say that, you fool! I tell you, Hugo, if you go
into that business, I'll get up on the stand and say I knew it all the
time and I let a man play on my team when I was pretty sure that sooner
or later he'd kill someone. Then I'll go to jail surely."
"You're a pretty fine man, Mr. Woodman."
"Hell!"
"What shall I do?" Hugo's voice trembled. He suffered as he had not
dreamed it was possible to suffer.
"That's up to you. I'd say, live it down."
"Live it down! Do you know what that means--in a college?"
"Yes, I think I do, Hugo."
"You can live down almost anything, except that one thing--murder. It's
too ugly, Woodie."
"Maybe. Maybe. You've got to decide, son. If you decide against
trying--and, mind you, you might be justified--I've got a brother-in-law
who has a ranch in Alberta. A couple of hundred miles from any place.
You'd be welcome there."
Hugo did not reply. He took the coach's hand and wrung it. Then for an
hour the two men sat side by side in the darkness. At last Woodman rose
and left. He said only: "Remember that offer. It's cold and bleak and
the work is hard. Good-night, Hugo."
"Good-night, Woodie. Thanks for coming up."
When the campus was still with the quiet of sleep, Hugo crossed it as
swiftly as a spectre. All night he strode remorselessly over country
roads. His face was set. His eyes burned. He ignored the trembling of
his joints. When the sky faded, he went back. He packed his clothes in
two suit-cases. With them swinging at his side, he stole out of the Psi
Delta house, crossed the campus, stopped. For a long instant he stared
at Webster Hall. The first light of morning was just touching it. The
débris collected for a fire that was never lighted was strewn around the
cannon. He saw the initials he had painted there a year and more ago
still faintly legible. A lump rose in his throat.
"Good-by, Webster," he said. He lifted the suitcase and vanished. In a
few minutes the campus was five miles behind him--six--ten--twenty. When
he saw the first early caravan of produce headed toward the market, he
slowed to a walk. The sun came over a hill and sparkled on a billion
drops of dew. A bird flew singing from his path. Hugo Danner had fled
beyond the gates of Webster.
X
A year passed. In the harbour of Cristobal, at the northern end of the
locks, waiting for the day to open the great steel jaws that dammed the
Pacific from the Atlantic, the _Katrina_ pulled at her anchor chain in
the gentle swell. A few stars, liquid bright, hung in the tropical sky.
A little puff of wind coming occasionally from the south carried the
smell of the jungle to the ship. The crew was awakening.
A man with a bucket on a rope went to the rail and hauled up a brimming
pail from the warm sea. He splashed his face and hands into it. Then he
poured it back and repeated the act of dipping up water.
"Hey!" he said.