Klinker lingered over the ceremonial; it was plain that the
gymnasier was very dear to him. In fact, he loved everything pertaining
to bodily exercise and manly sport; he caressed a boxing-glove as he
never caressed a lady's hand; the smell of witch-hazel on a hard bare
limb was more titillating to him than any intoxicant. The introduction
over, Klinker sat down tenderly on the polished seat of the
rowing-machine, and addressed Doctor Queed, who stood with an academic
arm thrown gingerly over the horizontal bar.
"There's your medicine, Doe. And if you don't take it--well, it may be
the long good-by for yours before the flowers bloom again."
"How do you mean, Mr. Klinker--there is my medicine?"
"I mean, you need half an hour to an hour's hardest kind of work right
here every day, reg'lar as meals."
Queed started as though he had been stung. He cleared his throat
nervously.
"No doubt that would be beneficial--in a sense, but I cannot afford to
take the time from My Book--"
"That's where you got it dead wrong. You can't afford not to take the
time. Any doctor'll tell you the same as me, that you'll never finish
your book at all at the clip you're hitting now.
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