Hugo wound up his string and put it beside his top. He walked mechanically into the road. He looked at the legs of the man on the ground. They were oozing blood where the backboard rested on them. The men gathered there were lifting again, without result. Hugo caught the side and bent his small shoulders. With all his might he pulled up. The wagon was jerked into the air. They pulled out the injured man. Hugo lowered the wagon slowly.
For a moment no attention was paid to him. He waited pridefully for the recognition he had earned. He dug in the dirt with the side of his shoe. A man with a mole on his nose observed him. "Funny how that kid's strength was just enough to turn the balance."
Hugo smiled. "I'm pretty strong," he admitted.
Another man saw him. "Get out of here," he said sharply. "This is no place for a kid."
"But I was the one—"
"I said beat it. And I meant beat it. Go home to your ma."
Slowly the light went from Hugo's eyes. They did not know—they could not know. He had lifted more than two tons. And the men stood now, waiting for the doctor, telling each other how strong they were when the instant of need came.
"Go on, kid. Run along. I'll smack you."
Hugo went. He forgot to spin his top. He stumbled a little as he walked.