“Training,” replied Mr. Larkins. “Hurry up.”
“I don’t believe old Bullock’s going to make Tarbut bathe,” said Gubbs, shivering; “it’s weakening.”
“You do as you’re told,” said the autocratic Larkins. “Bullock don’t know nothing about it.”
Mr. Gubbs sighed and withdrew his head, and explaining to his astonished wife that he was going for a little stroll, gloomily dressed himself and joined his trainer below.
“Shoulders back,” said the small publican. “Head up.”
He led the way down to the beach, and, ignoring the looks of aversion which Mr. Gubbs bestowed upon the silver sea, stood by while he disrobed and picked his way painfully over the shingle to the edge of the water. It was a bright morning, but somewhat chill, and Mr. Gubbs’s breathless gaspings furnished an excellent clue to the temperature of the water.
“How do you feel?” inquired Mr. Larkins, anxiously, as he rubbed him down.
“I feel ill,” said the other, shivering.
“You’ll feel better when you’ve had your run,” said Larkins, cheerily.
“’Ad my w—w—wot?” inquired Mr. Gubbs, staring at him offensively, and rubbing himself furiously with the towel.