“I have decided to train him,” Kelly explained. “It’s going to be a hard job. He’s got no bone. He’s got no muscle. He’s got no fat. He’s got nothin’.”
Again Kelly overlooked the proud and sensitive spirit which protested against this public dissection of physical defects.
The eyes of Kelly and Joe viewed the puny figure of the stenographer in the manner of disgusted farmers examining a runt which resists their efforts to fatten it.
“To get flesh and muscle and bone on him I must give him plenty of exercise and get him out into the air. That will make him eat,” Kelly went on.
“His present diet is mostly cigarettes, isn’t it?” Joe inquired.
“He eats them by the bale,” confessed Kelly.
Apparently Joe deemed himself invited into the case as a consulting specialist. “Make him cut them out,” he prescribed. “Take the little fellow out for a run every night and give him a good sweat out. Give him a bath and a rub down and get him in bed by ten o’clock. Watch your distances at first. Jonesy is full of dope. Look at his eyes.”
Mr. Jones quailed under this keen scrutiny of experts.
“He’ll fall dead if he runs a block,” predicted Joe. “He’ll be able to cover some ground, though, after a couple of weeks of plugging. You can speed him up, then.” He studied the stenographer with impersonal interest. “Make a feather weight boxer of him, Mike, if he isn’t yellow. Get him in shape for the fall meet of the Athletic Club. If he can’t box, make him run. He’s built like a jack rabbit.”
The course of treatment outlined by the consulting specialist filled Mr. Jones with undisguised alarm. His mind and body alike protested against the indignities which threatened him. To him came recognition that immediate resistance was necessary to prevent the advent of a gruelling course of physical training, repugnant to his flesh and revolting to his soul. “S-s-s-say,” he stammered in the intenseness of his opposition, “I don’t want––”