A peculiar, almost hopeful expression was on Hugo's face. "No," he answered.
"Well, they had to do with the biochemistry of cellular structure, didn't they? And with the production of energy in cells? And then—I talked to lots of people. I heard about Samson."
"Samson!" Hugo echoed, as if the dead had spoken.
"Samson—the cat."
Hugo was as pale as chalk. His eyes burned darkly. He felt that his universe was slipping from beneath him. "You know, then," he said.
"I don't know, Hugo. I merely guessed. I was going to ask. Now I shall not. Perhaps I do know. But I had another question, son—"
"Yes?" Hugo looked at Woodman and felt then the reason for his success as a coach, as a leader and master of youth. He understood it.
"Well, I wondered if you thought it was worth while to talk to your father and discover—"
"What he did?" Hugo suggested hoarsely.
Woodman put his hand on Hugo's knee. "What he did, son. You ought to know by this time what it means. I've been watching you. I don't want your head to swell, but you're a great boy, Hugo. Not only in beef. You have a brain and an imagination and a sense of moral responsibility. You'll come out better than the rest—you would even without your—your particular talent. And I thought you might think that the rest of humanity would profit—"