, you know."

"Well, make quite sure to-morrow. I must have you not quite so herringy."

I made quite sure the next morning. I had eight stone and a half on the
weight part, and the-little-thing-you-move-up-and-down was on the "4"
notch, and the bar balanced midway between the top and the bottom. To
have had a crowd in to see would have been quite unnecessary; the whole
machine was shouting eight-stone-eleven as loudly as it could.

"I expect it's got used to you," said Celia when I told her the sad state
of affairs. "It likes eight-stone-eleven people."

"We will give it," I said, "one more chance."

Next morning the weights were as I had left them, and I stepped on
without much hope, expecting that the bar would come slowly up to its
midway position of rest. To my immense delight, however, it never
hesitated but went straight up to the top. At last I had put on flesh!

Very delicately I moved the-thing-you-move-up-and-down to its next notch.
Still the bar stayed at the top. I had put on at least another ounce of
flesh!

I continued to put on more ounces. Still the bar remained up! I was
eight-stone-thirteen.... Good heavens, I was eight-stone-fourteen!

I pushed the-thing-you-move-up-and-down back to the zero position, and
exchanged the half-stone weight for a stone one. Excited but a trifle
cold, for it was a fresh morning, and the upper part of the window was
wide open, I went up from nine stone ounce by ounce....

At nine-stone-twelve I jumped off for a moment and shut the window....

At eleven-stone-eight I had to get off again in order to attend to the
bath, which was in danger of overflowing....

At fifteen-stone-eleven the breakfast gong went....

At nineteen-stone-nine I realized that I had overdone it. However I
decided to know the worst. The worst that the machine could tell me was
twenty-stone-seven. At twenty-stone-seven I left it.

Celia, who had nearly finished breakfast, looked up eagerly as I came in.

"Well?" she said.

"I am sorry I am late," I apologized, "but I have been putting on flesh."

"Have you really gone up?" she asked excitedly.

"Yes." I began mechanically to help myself to porridge, and then stopped.
"No, perhaps not," I said thoughtfully.

"Have you gone up much?"

"Much," I said. "Quite much."

"How much? Quick!"

"Celia," I said sadly, "I am twenty-stone-seven. I may be more; the
weighing-machine gave out then."

"Oh, but, darling, that's much too much."

"