“Gittit.” He thrust a typed list into her hand. “How much you weigh?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yah don’t know?”
“Somewhere about a hundred and fifty, I suppose.”
“Yah suppose. Grmph!” The exclamation was replete with contempt. “Come into the shop.”
She followed him into a big airy room flooded with overhead light, and filled with all sorts of mechanism. Obedient to a gesture she stepped on the scales. Mr. Dunne busied himself with a careful adjustment.
“You’ll strip a hunner’n fifty-two,” he declared.
Darcy vaguely felt as if she were being accused of murder. She felt even worse when the iron-faced Mr. Dunne made an entry in a little notebook.
“Will I?” she said faintly.
“Not long,” retorted the trainer.