The first morning I weighed myself just before stepping into the water.
When I got down to breakfast I told Celia the result.
"You are a herring," she said sadly.
"But think what an opportunity it gives me. If I started the right weight, the rest of the fortnight would be practically wasted. By the way, the doctor talks about putting on flesh, but he didn't say how much he wanted. What do you think would be a nice amount?"
"About another stone," said Celia. "You were just a nice size before the
War."
"All right. Perhaps I had better tell the weighing-machine. This is a co-operative job; I can't do it all myself."
The next morning I was the same as before, and the next, and the next, and the next.
"Really," said Celia, pathetically, "we might just as well have gone to a house where there wasn't a weighing-machine at all. I don't believe it's trying. Are you sure you stand on it long enough?"
"Long enough for me. It's a bit cold, you know."
"Well, make quite sure to-morrow. I must have you not quite so herringy."
I made quite sure the next morning. I had eight stone and a half on the weight part, and the-little-thing-you-move-up-and-down was on the "4" notch, and the bar balanced midway between the top and the bottom. To have had a crowd in to see would have been quite unnecessary; the whole machine was shouting eight-stone-eleven as loudly as it could.