"Sad? Good God, man, you're going stale."
"Maybe that's it." Hugo had a sudden fancy. "Do you suppose I could be let out of next week's game?"
"What for? My God—"
Hugo pursued the idea. "It's the last game. I can sit on the lines. You fellows all play good ball. You can probably win. If you can't—then I'll play. If you only knew, Lefty, how tired I get sometimes—"
"Tired! Why don't you say something about it? You can lay off practice for three or four days."
"Not that. Tired in the head, not the body. Tired of crashing through and always getting away with it. Oh, I'm not conceited. But I know they can't stop me. You know it. It's a gift of mine—and a curse. How about it? Let's start next week without me."
The night ended at last. A new day came. The bell on Webster Hall stopped booming. Woodie, the coach, came to see Hugo between classes. "Lefty says you want us to start without you next week. What's the big idea?"
"I don't know. I thought the other birds would like a shot at Yale without me. They can do it."
Mr. Woodman eyed his player. "That's pretty generous of you, Hugo. Is there any other reason?"
"Not—that I can explain."