Gladiator

by Wylie, Philip;

  Hugo undressed and put on the suit. Fitzsimmons, the trainer, looked at him with warm admiration. “You’re sure built, son.”

  “Yeah. That’s luck, isn’t it?”

  Then Hugo was taken to another office. Woodman asked him a number of questions about his weight, his health, his past medical history. He listened to Hugo’s heart and then led him to a scale. Hugo had lied about his weight.

  “I thought you said one hundred and sixty, Mr. Danner?”

  The scales showed two hundred and eleven, but it was impossible for a man of his size and build to weigh that much. Hugo had lied deliberately, hoping that he could avoid the embarrassment of being weighed. “I did, Mr. Woodman. You see—my weight is a sort of freak. I don’t show it—no one would believe it—and yet there it is.” He did not go into the details of his construction from a plasm new to biology.

  “Huh!” Mr. Woodman said. Together they walked out on the floor of the gymnasium. Woodman called to one of the figures on the track who was making slow, plodding circuits. “Hey, Nellie! Take this bird up and pace him for a lap. Make it fast.”

  A little smile came at the corners of Hugo’s mouth. Several of the men in the gymnasium stopped work to watch the trial of what was evidently a new candidate. “Ready?” Woodman said, and the runners crouched side by side. “Set? Go!”

  Nelson, one of the best sprinters Webster had had for years, dashed forward. He had covered thirty feet when he heard a voice almost in his ear. “Faster, old man.”

  Nelson increased. “Faster, boy, I’m passing you.” The words 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.”

  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 graying 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 the secretary, “passed his examinations with the highest honors and was admitted among the first ten.”

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

  “Good!” 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 carpet-bag 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 second-hand desk he had bought.

  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. By God, if I was a bit superstitious, I’d throw up my job and get as much distance between me and that bird as I could. I’m telling you simply to prepare you. There’s something mighty funny about him, and the sooner we find out, the better.”

  Mr. Woodman left the dormitory. Lefty and Chuck stared at each other for the space of a minute, and then, with one accord, they went together to the registrar’s office. There they found Hugo’s address on the campus, and in a few minutes they were at his door.

  “Come in,” Hugo said. He smiled when he saw Lefty and Chuck. “Want some more trunks moved?”

  “Maybe—later.” They sat down, eyeing Hugo speculatively. Lefty acted as spokesman. “Listen here, guy, we’ve just seen Woodie and he says you’re phenomenal—so much so that it isn’t right.”

  Hugo walked to the window and looked out into the thickened gloom. He had caught the worry, the repression, in Lefty’s voice. The youth, his merry blue eyes suddenly grave, his poised self abnormally disturbed, had suggested criticism of some sort. What was it? Hugo was hurt and a little frightened. Would his college life be a repetition of Indian Creek? Would the athletes and the others in college of his own age fear and detest him—because he was superior? Was that what they meant? He did not know. He was loath to offend Lefty and Chuck. But there seemed no alternativ
e to the risk. No one had talked to him that way for a long time. He sat on his bed. “Fellows,” he said tersely, “I don’t think I know what you’re driving at. Will you tell me?”

  The roommates fidgeted. They did not know exactly, either. They had come to fathom the abnormality in Hugo. Chuck lit a cigarette. Lefty smiled with an assumed ease. “Why—nothing, Danner. You see—well—I’m quarterback of the football team. And you’ll probably be on it this year—we haven’t adopted the new idea of keeping freshmen off the varsity. Just wanted to tell you those—well—those principles.”

  Hugo knew that he had not been answered. He felt, too, that he would never in his life give away his secret. The defenses surrounding it had been too immutably fixed. His joy at knowing that he had been accepted so soon as a logical candidate for the football team was tempered by this questioning. “I have principles, fellows.”

  “Good.” Lefty rose. “Guess we’ll be going. By the way, Woodie said you smashed a couple of track records to-day. Where’d you learn?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “How come, then?”

  “Just—natural.”

  Lefty summoned his will. “Sure it isn’t—well—unhealthy? I understand there are a couple of diseases that make you—well—get tough—like stone.”

  Hugo realized the purpose of the visit. “Then—be sure I haven’t any diseases. My father had an M.D.” He smiled awkwardly. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been stronger than most people. And I probably have a little edge still. Just an accident, that’s all. Is that what you were wondering about?”

  Lefty smiled with instant relief. “Yes, it is. And I’m glad you take it that way. Listen—why don’t you come over to the Inn and take dinner with Chuck and me? Let commons go for to-night. What say?”

  At eleven Hugo wound his alarm clock and set it for seven. He yawned and smiled. All during supper he had listened to the glories of Webster and the advantages of belonging to the Psi Delta fraternity, to descriptions of parties and to episodes with girls. Lefty and Chuck had embraced him in their circle. They had made suggestions about what he should wear and whom he should know; they had posted him on the behavior best suited for each of his professors. They liked him and he liked them immensely. They were the finest fellows in the world. Webster was a magnificent university. And he was going to be one of its most glorious sons.

  He undressed and went to bed. In a moment he slept, drawing in deep, swift breaths. His face was smiling and his arm was extended, whether to ward off shadows or to embrace a new treasure could not be told. In the bright sunshine of morning his alarm jangled and he woke to begin his career as an undergraduate.

  Chapter VII

  FROM the day of his arrival Webster University felt the presence of Hugo Danner. Classes, football practice, hazing, fraternity scouting began on that morning with a feverish and good-natured hurly-burly that, for a time, completely bewildered him. Hugo participated in everything. He went to the classroom with pleasure. It was never difficult for him to learn and never easier than in those first few weeks. The professors he had known (and he reluctantly included his own father) were dry-as-dust individuals who had none of the humanities. And at least some of the professors at Webster were brilliant, urbane, capable of all understanding. Their lectures were like tonic to Hugo.

  The number of his friends grew with amazing rapidity. It seemed that he could not cross the campus without being hailed by a member of the football team and presented to another student. The Psi Delta saw to it that he met the entire personnel of their chapter at Webster. Other fraternities looked at him with covetous eyes, but Lefty Foresman, who was chairman of the membership committee, let it be known that the Psi Deltas had marked Hugo for their own. And no one refused their bid.

  So the autumn commenced. The first football game was played and Hugo made a touchdown. He made another in the second game. They took him to New York in November for the dinner that was to celebrate the entrance of a new chapter to Psi Delta.

  His fraternity had hired a private car. As soon as the college towers vanished, the entertainment committee took over the party. Glasses were filled with whiskey and passed by a Negro porter. Hugo took his with a feeling of nervousness and of excited anticipation. The coach had given him permission to break training—advised it, in fact. And Hugo had never tasted liquor. He watched the others, holding his glass gingerly. They swallowed their drinks, took more. The effect did not seem to be great. He smelled the whiskey, and the smell revolted him.

  “Drink up, Danner!”

  “Never use the stuff. I’m afraid it’ll throw me.”

  “Not you. Come on! Bottoms up!”

  It ran into his throat, hot and steaming. He swallowed a thousand needles and knew the warmth of it in his stomach. They gave another glass to him and then a third. Some of the brothers were playing cards. Hugo watched them. He perceived that his feet were loose on their ankles and that his shoulders lurched. It would not do to lose control of himself, he thought. For another man, it might be safe. Not for him. He repeated the thought inanely.

  The railroad coach was twisting and writhing peculiarly. Hugo suddenly wanted to be in the air. He hastened to the platform of the car and stood on it, squinting his eyes at the countryside. When they reached the Grand Central Terminal he was cured of his faintness. They rode to the theater in an omnibus and saw the matinee of a musical show. Hugo had never realized that so many pretty girls could be. gathered together in one place. Their scant, glittering costumes flashed in his face. He wanted them. Between the acts the fraternity repaired in a body to the lavatory and drank whiskey from bottles.

  Hugo began to feel that he was living at last. He was among men, sophisticated men, and learning to be like them. Nothing like the camaraderie, the show, the liquor, in Indian Creek. He was wearing the suit that Lefty Foresman had chosen for him. He felt well dressed, cool, capable. He was intensely well disposed toward his companions. When the show was over, he stood in the bright lights, momentarily depressed by the disappearance of the long file of girls. Then he shouldered among his companions and went out of the theater riotously.

  Two long tables were drawn up at the Raven, a restaurant famous for its roast meats, its beer, and its lack of scruples about the behavior of its guests. The Psi Deltas took their places at the tables. The dining-room they occupied was private. Hugo saw as if in a dream the long rows of silverware, the dishes of celery and olives, and the ranks of shining glasses. They sat. Waiters wound their way among them. There was a song. The toastmaster, a New York executive who had graduated from Webster twenty years before, understood the temper of his charge. He was witty, ribald, genial.

  At the end of the long meal Hugo realized that his being had undergone change. Objects approached and receded before his vision. The voice of the man sitting beside him came to his ears as if through water. His mind continually turned upon itself in a sort of infatuated examination. His attention could not be held even on his own words. He decided that he was feverish. Then some one said: “Well, Danner, how do you like being drunk?”

  “Drunk?”

  “Sure. You aren’t going to tell me you’re sober, are you?”

  When the speaker had gone, Hugo realized that it was Chuck. There had been no feeling of recognition. “I’m drunk!” he said.

  “Fellows!” A fork banged on a glass. “Fellows!” There was a slow increase in silence. “Fellows! It’s eleven o’clock now. And I have a surprise for you.”

  “Surprise! Hey, guys, shut up for the surprise!”

  “Fellows! What I was going to say is this: the girls from the show we saw this afternoon are coming over here—all thirty of ‘em. We’re going up to my house for a real party. And the lid’ll be off. Anything goes—only anybody that fights gets thrown out straight off without an argument. Are you on?”

  The announcement was greeted by a stunned quiet which grew into a bellow of approval. Plates and glasses were thrown on the floor. Lefty leaped on to the table a
nd performed a dance. The proprietor came in, looked, and left hastily, and then the girls arrived.

  They came through the door, after a moment of reluctant hesitation, like a flood of brightly colored water. They sat down in the laps of the boys, on chairs, on the edge of the disarrayed tables. They were served with innumerable drinks as rapidly as the liquor could be brought. They were working that night, for the ten dollars promised to each one. But they were working with college boys, which was a rest from the stream of affluent and paunchy males who made their usual escort. Their gayety was better than assumed.

  Hugo had never seen such a party or dreamed of one. His vision was cleared instantly of its cobwebs. He saw three boys seize one girl and turn her heels over head. A piano was moved in. She jumped up and started dancing on the table. Then there was a voice at his side.

  “Hello, good-looking. I could use that drink if you can spare it.”

  Hugo looked at the girl. She had brown hair that had been curled. Her lips and cheeks were heavily rouged and the corners of her mouth turned down in a sort of petulance or fatigue. But she was pretty. And her body, showing whitely above her evening dress, was creamy and warm. He gave the drink to her. She sat in his lap.

  “Gosh,” he whispered. She laughed.

  “I saw her first,” some one said, pulling at the girl’s arm.

  “Go ‘way,” Hugo shouted. He pushed the other from them. “What’s your name?”

  “Bessie. What’s yours?”

  “Hugo.”

  The girl accepted two glasses from a waiter. They drained them, looking at each other over the rims. “Got any money, Hugo?”

  Hugo had. He carried on his person the total of his cash assets. Some fifty dollars. “Sure. I have fifty dollars,” he answered.

  He felt her red lips against his ear. “Let’s you and me duck this party and have a little one of our own. I’ve got an apartment not far from here.”

  He could hear the pounding of his heart. “Let’s.”

  They moved unostentatiously from the room. Outside, in the hall, she took his hand. They ran to the front door.