Gladiator by Philip Wylie (recommended reading .txt) 📕

were spoken quietly, calmly. A rage filled Nelson. He let every ounce of his strength into his limbs and skimmed the canvas. Half a lap. Hugo ran at his side and Nelson could not lead him. The remaining half was not a race. Hugo finished thirty feet in the lead.

Woodman, standing on the floor, wiped his forehead and bawled: “That the best you can do, Nellie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“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.

Late in the afternoon of that day Hugo found his room in Thompson Dormitory. He unpacked his carpetbag and his straw suitcase. He checked in his mind the things that he had done. It seemed a great deal for one day⁠—a complete alteration of his life. He had seen the dean and arranged his classes: trigonometry, English, French, Latin, biology, physics, economics, hygiene. With a pencil and a ruler he made a schedule, which he pinned on the secondhand desk he had bought.

Then he checked his furniture: a desk, two chairs, a bed, bedclothes, a rug, sheets and blankets, towels. He hung his clothes in the closet. For a while he looked at them attentively. They were not like the clothes of the other students. He could not quite perceive the difference, but he felt it, and it made him uncomfortable. The room to which he had been assigned was pleasant. It looked over the rolling campus on two sides, and both windows were framed in the leaves of nodding ivy.

It was growing dark. From a dormitory near by came the music of a banjo. Presently the player sang and other voices joined with him. A warm and golden sun touched the high clouds with lingering fire. Voices cried out, young and vigorous. Hugo sighed. He was going to be happy at Webster. His greatness was going to be born here.

At that time Woodman called informally on Chuck and Lefty. They were in a heated argument over the decorative arrangement of various liquor bottles when he knocked. “Come in!” they shouted in unison.

“Hello!”

“Oh, Woodie. Come in. Sit down. Want a drink⁠—you’re not in training?”

“No, thanks. Had one. And it would be a damn sight better if you birds didn’t keep the stuff around.”

“It’s Chuck’s.” Lefty grinned.

“All right. I came to see about that bird you brought to me⁠—Danner.”

“Was he any good?”

Woodman hesitated. “Fellows, if I told you how good he was, you wouldn’t believe me. He’s so good⁠—I’m scared of him.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Just that. He gave Nellie thirty feet in a lap on the track.”

“Great God!”

“He jumped twenty-eight and eleven feet⁠—running and standing. He kicked half a dozen punts for eighty and ninety yards and he passed the same distance.”

Lefty sat down on the window seat. His voice was hoarse. “That⁠—can’t be done, Woodie.”

“I know it. But he did it. But that isn’t what makes me frightened. How much do you think he weighs?”

“One fifty-five⁠—or thereabouts.”

Woodie shook his head. “No, Lefty, he weighs two hundred and eleven.”

“Two eleven! He can’t, Woodie. There’s something wrong with your scales.”

“Not a thing.”

The two students stared at each other and then at the coach. They were able to grasp the facts intellectually, but they could not penetrate the reactions of their emotions. At last Lefty said: “But that isn’t⁠—well⁠—it isn’t human, Woodie.”

“That’s why I’m scared. Something has happened to this bird. He has a disease of some kind⁠—that has toughened him. Like Pott’s disease, that turns you to stone. But you wouldn’t think it. There’s not a trace of anything on the surface. I’m having a blood test made soon. Wait till tomorrow