"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."