“All that!” the other scorned proudly. “For one muscle you see, there's five tucked away but under command. Touch your finger to any part of me and see.”
Billy complied, touching the right breast.
“You know something about anatomy, picking a muscleless spot,” scolded Hall.
Billy grinned triumphantly, then, to his amazement, saw a muscle grow up under his finger. He prodded it, and found it hard and honest.
“Massage under tension!” Hall exulted. “Go on—anywhere you want.”
And anywhere and everywhere Billy touched, muscles large and small rose up, quivered, and sank down, till the whole body was a ripple of willed quick.
“Never saw anything like it,” Billy marveled at the end; “an' I've seen some few good men stripped in my time. Why, you're all living silk.”
“Massage under tension did it, my friend. The doctors gave me up. My friends called me the sick rat, and the mangy poet, and all that. Then I quit the city, came down to Carmel, and went in for the open air—and massage under tension.”
“Jim Hazard didn't get his muscles that way,” Billy challenged.
“Certainly not, the lucky skunk; he was born with them. Mine's made. That's the difference. I'm a work of art. He's a cave bear. Come along. I'll show you around now. You'd better get your clothes off. Keep on only your shoes and pants, unless you've got a pair of trunks.”