Gladiator - Philip Wylie (readnow .TXT) 📗

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 suitcases. 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 debris 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.

“Goodbye, 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.

Another man joined him. “Here. Swab off your sweat. Look yonder.”

The dorsal fin of a shark rippled momentarily on the surface and dipped beneath it. A third man appeared. He accepted the proffered water and washed himself. His roving eye saw the shark as it rose for the second time. He dried on a towel. The offshore breeze stirred his dark hair. There was a growth of equally dark beard on his tanned jaw and cheek. Steely muscles bulged under his shirt. His forearm, when he picked up the pail, was corded like cable. A smell of coffee issued from the galley, and the smoke of the cook’s fire was wafted on deck for a pungent moment. Two bells sounded. The music went out over the water in clear, humming waves.

The man who had come first from the forecastle leaned his buttocks against the rail. One end of it had been unhooked to permit the discharge of mail. The rail ran, the man fell back, clawing, and then, thinking suddenly of the sharks, he screamed. The third man looked. He saw his fellow-seaman go overboard. He jumped from where he stood, clearing the scuppers and falling through the air before the victim of the slack rail had landed in the water. The two splashes were almost simultaneous. A boatswain, hearing the cry, hastened to the scene. He saw one man lifted clear of the water by the other, who was treading water furiously. He shouted for a rope. He saw the curve and dip of a fin. The first man seized the rope and climbed and was pulled up. The second, his rescuer, dived under water as if aware of something there that required his attention. The men above him could not know that he had felt the rake of teeth across his leg⁠—powerful teeth, which nevertheless did not penetrate his skin. As he dived into the green depths, he saw a body lunge toward him, turn, yawn a white-fringed mouth. He snatched the lower jaw in one hand, and the upper in the other. He exerted his strength. The mouth gaped wider, a tail twelve feet behind it lashed, the thing died with fingers like steel claws tearing at its brain. It floated belly up. The man rose, took the rope, climbed aboard. Other sharks assaulted the dead one.

The dripping sailor clasped his saviour’s hand. “God Almighty, man, you saved my life. Jesus!”

“That’s four,” Hugo Danner said abstractedly, and then he smiled. “It’s all right. Forget it. I’ve had a lot of experience with sharks.” He had never seen one before in his life. He walked aft, where the men grouped around him.

“How’d you do it?”

“It’s a trick I can’t explain very well,” Hugo said. “You use their rush to break their jaws. It takes a good deal of muscle.”

“Anyway⁠—guy⁠—thanks.”

“Sure.”

A whistle blew. The ships were lining up in the order of their arrival for admission to the Panama Canal. Gatun loomed in