It won't take a
minute, and you can catch it up eating supper faster if you feel you got
to."
Queed, curious, as well as decidedly impressed by Klinker's sure
knowledge in a field where he was totally ignorant, was persuaded. The
two groped their way down a long dark passage at the rear of the shop,
and into a large room like a cavern. Klinker lit a flaring gas-jet and
made a gesture.
"The Mercury Athletic Club gymnasier and sporting-room."
It was a basement room, with two iron-grated windows at the back. Two
walls were lined with stout shelves, partially filled with boxes. The
remaining space, including wall-space, was occupied by the most curious
and puzzling contrivances that Queed had ever seen. Out of the glut of
enigmas there was but one thing--a large mattress upon the floor--that
he could recognize without a diagram.
"Your caretaker sleeps here, I perceive."
Klinker laughed. "Look around you, Doc. Take a good gaze."
Doc obeyed. Klinker picked up a "sneaker" from the floor and hurled it
with deadly precision at a weight-and-pulley across the room.
"There's your medicine, Doc!"
Orange-stick in mouth, he went around like a museum guide, introducing
the beloved apparatus to the visitor under its true names and uses, the
chest-weights, dumb-*bells and Indian clubs, flying-rings, a
rowing-machine, the horizontal and parallel bars, the punching-bag and
trapeze.
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