“What in hell have you been doing to yourself?”

Nelson drew a sobbing breath. “I—haven’t—done—a thing. Time—that man. He’s—faster than the intercollegiate mark.”

Woodman, still dubious, made Hugo run against time. And Hugo, eager to make an impression and unguided by a human runner, broke the world’s record for the distance around the track by a second and three-fifths. The watch in Woodman’s hands trembled.

“Hey!” he said, uncertain of his voice, “come down here, will you?”

Hugo descended the spiral iron staircase. He was breathing with ease. Woodman stared at him. “Lessee you jump.”

Hugo was familiar with the distances for jumping made in track meets. He was careful not to overdo his effort. His running jump was twenty-eight feet, and his standing jump was eleven feet and some inches. Woodman’s face ran water. His eyes gleamed. “Danner,” he said, “where did you get that way?”

“What way?”

“I mean—what have you done all your life?”

“Nothing. Gone to school.”

“Two hundred and eleven pounds,” Woodman muttered, “run like an Olympic champ—jump like a kangaroo—how’s your kicking?”

“All right, I guess.”

“Passing?”

“All right, I guess.”

“Come on outside. Hey, Fitz! Bring a ball.”

An hour later Fitzsimmons found Woodman sitting in his office. Beside him was a bottle of whisky which he kept to revive wounded gladiators. “Fitz,” said Woodman, looking at the trainer with dazed eyes, “did you see what I saw?”

“Yes, I did, Woodie.”

“Tell me about it.”

Fitzsimmons scratched his greying head. “Well, Woodie, I seen a young man—”

“Saw, Fitz.”

“I saw a young man come into the gym an’ undress. He looked like an oiled steam engine. I saw him go and knock hell out of three track records without even losing his breath. Then I seen him go out on the field an’ kick a football from one end to the other an’ pass it back. That’s what I seen.”

Woodman nodded his head. “So did I. But I don’t believe it, do you?”

“I do. That’s the man you—an’ all the other coaches—have been wantin’ to see. The perfect athlete. Better in everything than the best man at any one thing. Just a freak, Woodie—but, God Almighty, how New Haven an’ Colgate are goin’ to feel it these next years!”

“Mebbe he’s dumb, Fitz.”

“Mebbe. Mebbe not.”

“Find out.”

Fitz wasted no time. He telephoned to the registrar’s office. “Mr. H. Danner,” said the voice of a secretary, “passed his examinations with the highest honours and was admitted among the first ten.”

“He passed his entrance exams among the first ten,” Fitzsimmons repeated.

“God!” said Woodman, “it’s the millennium!” And he took a drink.