crack. You think an hour a day exercise would be kind of a waste, ain't
that right? Kind of a dead loss off'n your book and studies?"
"I certainly do feel--"
"Well, you're wrong. Listen here. Don't you feel some days as if mebbe
you could do better writing and harder writing if only you didn't feel
so mean?"
"Well ... I will frankly confess that sometimes--"
"Didn't I know it! Do you know what, Doc? If you knocked out a little
time for reg'lar exercise, you'd find when bedtime came, that you'd done
better work than you ever did before."
Queed was silent. He had the most logical mind in the world, and now at
last Klinker had produced an argument that appealed to his reason.
"I'll put it to you as a promise," said Klinker, eyeing him earnestly.
"One hour a day exercise, and you do more work in twenty-four hours than
you're doing now, besides feelin' one hundred per cent better all the
time."
Still Queed was silent. _One hour a day!_
"Try it for only a month," said Klinker the Tempter.
"I'll help you--glad to do it--I need the drill myself. Gimme an hour a
day for just a month, and I'll bet you the drinks you wouldn't quit
after that for a hundred dollars."
Queed turned away from Klinker's honest eyes, and wrestled the bitter
thing out. _Thirty Hours stolen from His Book!..._ Yesterday, even an
hour ago, he would not have considered such an outrage for a moment. But
now, driving him irresistibly toward the terrible idea, working upon him
far more powerfully than his knowledge of headache, even than Klinker's
promise of a net gain in his working ability, was this new irrationally
disturbing knowledge that he was a physical incompetent.... If he had
begun systematic exercise ten years ago, probably he could thrash Mr.
Pat to-day.
Yet an hour a day is not pried out of a sacred schedule of work without
pains and anguish, and it was with a grim face that the Doc turned back
to William Klinker.
"Very well, Mr. Klinker, I will agree to make the experiment,
tentatively--an hour a day for thirty days only."
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