“Tired! Why don’t you say something about it? You can lay off practice for three or four days.”

“Not that. Tired in the head, not the body. Tired of crashing through and always getting away with it. Oh, I’m not conceited. But I know they can’t stop me. You know it. It’s a gift of mine—and a curse. How about it? Let’s start next week without me.”

The night ended at last. A new day came. The bell on Webster Hall stopped booming. Woodie, the coach, came to see Hugo between classes. “Lefty says you want us to start without you next week. What’s the big idea?”

“I don’t know. I thought the other birds would like a shot at Yale without me. They can do it.”

Mr. Woodman eyed his player. “That’s pretty generous of you, Hugo. Is there any other reason?”

“Not—that I can explain.”

“I see.” The coach offered Hugo a cigarette after he had helped himself. “Take it. It’ll do you good.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, Hugo. I want to ask you a question. But, first, I want you to promise you’ll give me a plain answer.”

“I’ll try.”

“That won’t do.”

“Well—I can’t promise.”

Woodman sighed. “I’ll ask it anyway. You can answer or not—just as you wish.” He was silent. He inhaled his cigarette and blew the smoke through his nostrils. His eyes rested on Hugo with an expression of intense interest, beneath which was a softer light of something not unlike sympathy. “I’ll have to tell you something, first, Hugo. When you went away last summer, I took a trip to Colorado.”

Hugo started, and Woodman continued: “To Indian Creek. I met your father and your mother. I told them that I knew you. I did my best to gain their confidence. You see, Hugo, I’ve watched you with a more skilful eye than most people. I’ve seen you do things, a few little things, that weren’t—well—that weren’t—”

Hugo’s throat was dry. “Natural?”

“That’s the best word, I guess. You were never like my other boys, in any case. So I thought I’d find out what I could. I must admit that my efforts with your father were a failure. Aside from the fact that he is an able biology teacher and that he had a number of queer theories years ago, I learned nothing. But I did find out what those theories were. Do you want me to stop?”

A peculiar, almost hopeful expression was on Hugo’s face. “No,” he answered.

“Well, they had to do with the biochemistry of cellular structure, didn’t they? And with the production of energy in cells? And then—I talked to lots of people. I heard about Samson.”

“Samson!” Hugo echoed, as if the dead had spoken.

“Samson—the cat.”