In a flood of perspiration Jimmy turned round, redder than ever, his chest heaving, his mouth open, and his eyes, but without any conceit, asking for a word of praise from Dion, who went to clap him on the shoulder.
“Capital! Hallo! What muscles we’re getting! Eh, Jenkins?”
“Master Jimmy’s not doing badly, sir. He puts his heart into it. That I must say.”
Jimmy shone through the red and the perspiration.
“He sticks it,” continued Jenkins, in his loud voice. “Without grit there’s nothing done. That’s what I always tell my pupils.”
“I say”—began Jimmy, at last finding a small voice—“I say, Mr. Leith, you haven’t hurried over it.”
“Over what?”
“Letting me see you again. Why, it’s—”
“Run along to the bath, sir. You’ve got to have it before you cool down,” interposed the merciless Jenkins.
And Jimmy made off with an instant obedience which showed his private opinion of the god who was training him.