It was night. Out of deference to the body of the boy lying in the Webster chapel there was no celebration. Every ounce of glory and joy had been drained from the victory. The students left Hugo to a solitude that was more awful than a thousand scornful tongues. They thought he would feel as they would feel about such an accident. They gave him respect when he needed counsel. As he sat by himself, he thought that he should tell them the truth, all of them, confess a crime and accept the punishment. Hours passed. At midnight Woodman called.
"There isn't much to say, Hugo. I'm sorry, you're sorry, we're all sorry. But it occurred to me that you might do something foolish—tell these people all about it, for example."
"I was going to."
"Don't. They'd never understand. You'd be involved in a legal war that would undoubtedly end in your acquittal. But it would drag in all your friends—and your mother and father—particularly him. The papers would go wild. You might, on the other hand, be executed as a menace. You can't tell."
"It might be a good thing," Hugo answered bitterly.
"Don't let me hear you say that, you fool! I tell you, Hugo, if you go into that business, I'll get up on the 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."