Raymond looked scared. Ken wondered if the fellow ever got any enjoyment out of things. Then Ken found himself attending to his own sensations. The steam was pouring out of the pipe inside the box, and it was growing wetter, thicker, and hotter. The pleasant warmth and tickling changed to a burning sensation. Ken found himself bathed in a heavy sweat. Then he began to smart in different places, and he was hard put to it to keep rubbing them. The steam grew hotter; his body was afire; his breath labored in great heaves. Ken felt that he must cry out. He heard exclamations, then yells, from some of the other boxed-up players, and he glanced quickly around. Reddy Ray was smiling, and did not look at all uncomfortable. But Raymond was scarlet in the face, and he squirmed his head to and fro.
“Ough!” he bawled. “Let me out of here!”
One of the negro attendants lifted the lid and helped Raymond out. He danced about as if on hot bricks. His body was the color of a boiled lobster. The attendant put him under one of the showers and turned the water on. Raymond uttered one deep, low, “O-o-o-o!” Then McCord begged to be let out; Weir's big head, with its shock of hair, resembled that of an angry lion; little Trace screamed, and Duncan yelled.
“Peg, how're you?” asked Murray, walking up to Ken. “It's always pretty hot the first few times. But afterward it's fine. Look at Reddy.”
“Murray, give Peg a good stewin',” put in Arthurs. “He's got a great arm, and we must take care of it.”
Ken saw the other boys, except Ray, let out, and he simply could not endure the steam any longer.
“I've got—enough,” he stammered.
“Scotty, turn on a little more stew,” ordered Murray, cheerfully; then he rubbed his hand over Ken's face. “You're not hot yet.”
Scotty turned on more steam, and Ken felt it as a wet flame. He was being flayed alive.
“Please—please—let me out!” he implored.