"Here's the way to take a breathing exercise." Kelly slowly inhaled a mighty volume of air until his chest arched forth in all of its magnificent development. He held it so for a moment and beat upon it resoundingly in accordance with the supposed custom of the orang-outang in moments of victory. "No tuberculosis there," he boasted, after exhaling with the rush of a gale of wind. "That's some expansion, Kelly," the stenographer admitted, and he continued as in excuse for his own physical deficiencies, "I should take more exercise. My work is confining, and the strain is heavy. I'm all run down. The old man must have noticed it, too, because the other day he says to me, 'Mr. Jones, you're working too hard--it's telling on you--I'd give you a good rest if I could manage to get along without you.'" Kelly burst into a roar of laughter. "If you wait for the old man to give you a rest, my son, you are going to get tired, believe me. Cut out the bluff for a minute. I want to talk seriously to you. You're in rotten physical condition and you owe it to yourself to keep from playing leading man at a funeral." Mr. Jones's countenance registered horror. Kelly went on. "I happen to know a darn sight more about physical training than I do about book-keeping. I ought to--I spent enough time around a college gymnasium when I should have been some place else." Even Mr. Jones's alarm faded before this astounding information. "College," he remarked in surprise. "Sure," Kelly grinned, "I spent a couple of years in college. I'm proud of them. I nearly flunked out before I learned that I leaned to muscle instead of to literature." He returned to the subject under discussion. "I can give you a bunch of exercises which will do you a lot of good in six months if you are faithful. I'll give you gentle exercises at first, darn gentle," he laughed, "otherwise you'll snap something. I believe that I'll make a man out of you, young grasshopper." He shook his head wearily. "Gosh, but it's going to take a lot of work." Mr. Jones flushed hotly. "Say," he said, "it's not necessary to insult me, is it?" "Yes, you've got to use a harpoon to get anything through that rhinoceros' hide of egotism of yours." He fastened a stern and foreboding eye upon Mr. Jones. "Do you want to die?" he inquired. Mr. Jones sought the motive behind the startling question. "What's going to kill me?" he demanded. "Lack of air." Kelly's answer was obscure. It was too general. He thought it necessary to restate it with modifying amendments. "The lack of good fresh air," he concluded. "Oh," said Mr. Jones, apparently much relieved at the distinction made. "You want to get out into the air and breathe," Kelly explained as if the stenographer were carelessly given to omit this function. "I don't have the time." Mr. Jones visualized a dignified stroll over a golf links. Kelly gave thought to the difficulty. "A motorcycle would be the thing," he decided.