“Then we’ll do it all again,” said Mr. Dunne cheerfully. “Nothin’ like light exercise to loosen up the human frame.” For that “light” Darcy could cheerfully have slain him. Nobody since the world began, she felt convinced, neither gladiator of the classic arena nor the mighty John L. himself, had ever undergone such a fearsome grilling and lived. And now there was more to come. Over the twistings and turnings, the arm-flexures, the hoppings and skippings, the tingling of the outraged muscles, the panting of the overtaxed lungs, let us draw a kindly curtain. When the horrid hour was over, Darcy in her cold shower felt numb. Whether she could ever manage to get home on her own disjointed feet seemed doubtful. But she did. She went to bed at eight o’clock that night, having eaten almost nothing, in the firm conviction that she never would be able to get up in the morning without help, and probably not with it! Sleep such as she had not known in years submerged her. Roused late by her companions, she moved first an arm, then a leg, tentatively. No penalty attached to the experiment. With a low, anticipatory groan she sat up slowly in bed. The groan was a case of crying before she was hurt. She began to feel herself cautiously all over. Her skin was a little tender to the touch, and she noted with interest that the blood ran impetuously to whatever spot on the surface her exploring fingers pressed. But of that crippling lameness, that feeling of the whole bodily mechanism being racked and rusted, there remained only a trace. In its place was left a new variety of pang which Darcy pleasantly identified. She was ravenously hungry. Maud Raines observed to Helen Barrett after breakfast that any one who could bolt plain oatmeal the way Darcy did must have the appetite of a pig, and no wonder she was fat and slobby. But Andy Dunne, calling up Gloria to report progress, thus delivered his opinion: “You know that squab you sent me, Miss Greene?” “Yes.” “She wanted to quit.” “No! Did she do it?” “I bluffed her out of it. And say, Miss Greene!” “Yes, Andy.” “There may be something to that kid.” “Glad you think so.” Said Andy Dunne, expert on the human race slowly, consideringly, and more prophetically than he knew: “I kinda think there’s fighting stuff some-wheres under that fat.” CHAPTER VI