I heard Helen Framley’s deep-pitched distinctive drawl saying, “You used to be. You’ve been promoted to trainer. I’m taking over the breakfast.”
Louie came back to the bed. “A great girl,” he said, stiffening his fingers and jabbing them into the muscles on each side of my spine.
It took Louie half an hour to get me massaged to suit him, then I got into my clothes, feeling slightly tired but not fatigued. Helen had the table set, with grapefruit, coffee, golden brown toast, thick ham steaks, and fried eggs. As we started eating, she got up to pour flapjacks into a big frying-pan.
I felt hungry, not particularly ravenous, just hungry, but the food I ate didn’t seem to have any effect on my hunger. I ate and ate and my stomach refused to fill up.
Louie watched me approvingly.
Helen Framley said, “You’ll have him so fat he’ll waddle.”
“He won’t put on over three pounds,” Louie said. “He’s using up energy, and it takes food to supply that energy. He won’t carry an ounce of fat, but, boy, oh, boy, will he get solid.”
Her eyes searched mine. “Why the sudden desire to become proficient in the manly art of self-defense?” she asked.
I said, “I get tired of being a human punching-bag.”
“And so you quit your job, hire a boxing instructor, and start right in with road work, massages, boxing, and regular fight training?”