It had been pouring all day, a cold, driving rain, which kept some forty-odd active, vigorous athletes cooped up in the confines of the hotel. It was not so bad in the morning, but by the middle of the afternoon pool had lost its charm, craps failed to interest; and even the inveterate poker players were becoming satiated with that game. “I can feel myself putting on pounds and pounds,” mourned “Splinter” Jones, one of the outfielders, whose winter of luxurious idleness had resulted in about fifteen pounds of troublesome and unnecessary weight. “It’ll set me back a week.” “Too bad there ain’t a Turkish bath in this blooming village,” yawned Cy Russell. “If we was only in little old New York you could sit in a steam room and lose all the weight you wanted to.” Fargo turned suddenly from the window, his eyes sparkling. “Gee whiz, Cy!” he exclaimed. “That ain’t a bad idea. Why can’t we fix up one?” The pitcher’s eyes widened. “Fix up what?” he inquired. “A Turkish bath? You talk nutty, Buck.” “Nix! It’s a cinch! One thing good about this hash house is they’ve always got plenty of hot water. What’s to prevent our hiking up to one of the bathrooms, stopping the cracks with towels, and turning on the hot water full. I’ll guarantee in ten minutes you couldn’t see across the room. Moreover, the radiators are all red-hot to-day, and if we wrap Splinter up in blankets and set him down on one in the bathroom, we’ll see him oozing away to a shadow before our very eyes.” Jones straightened up in his chair, his lips pursed disapprovingly. “Not me,” he declared firmly. “Mebbe I’ve done some fool things in my life, but I never yet set down on a red-hot radiator without my clothes on, and I ain’t going to begin now.” “You loon!” grinned Fargo. “Did you think I meant without something under you to keep you from getting scorched? I ain’t got it in for you that bad. A bunch of bath towels’ll do the trick and make you so comfortable you’ll be going to sleep. Come on, boy! Be a sport.” The others added their persuasions, and at length the stout outfielder yielded. The thought of parting with five or six pounds at one fell swoop was irresistible. He presently arose and, escorted by eight or ten fellows, made his way to the upper regions. Lefty Locke did not happen to be in the lobby to see them go. He had gone up to his room soon after dinner, read several chapters in a volume of Dickens, and taken a sudden notion to write to his kid brother. By the time the letter was finished and he had pottered around a little longer, fretting at the downpour and regretting that he had not been able to keep up the good work commenced on the field the day before, it was nearly half past four. “Reckon I’ll go down and scare up somebody for a game of billiards,” he thought.