anged his quarters to the rooms he
now occupied, one flight up at the back of a saloon.

In a short time Bruce called that he was ready, and the professor
leisurely strolled into the back room, where there was a punching bag, a
striking machine, all kinds of boxing gloves, and other paraphernalia
such as a man in Kelley's business might need.

At one side of the room were several small closets, in which Kelley's
pupils kept their training suits while they were not wearing them. The
door of one closet was open, and Browning's street clothes were hanging
on some hooks inside.

Browning had got into trunks, stockings, and light, soft-bottomed shoes.
He was stripped to the waist.

Buster walked around the lad, inspecting him with a critical eye,
punching here and there with his fingers, feeling of certain muscles
and some points where there seemed to be a superabundance of flesh.

"Well, say!" cried the professor. "I'd like ter know wot yer kickin'
erbout! I never seen a feller work off fat no faster dan wot youse has,
an' dat's on der dead. Why, w'en yer comes yere yer didn't have a muscle
dat weren't buried in fat, an' now dey're comin' out hard all over yer.
You'd kick ef yer wuz playin' football!"

"That's all right," said Bruce, rather impatiently. "I know what I want,
and I am paying you to give it to me. Go ahead."

"Don't be so touchy," scowled Kelley. "Tackle der bag a while, an' let's
see how yer work."

Browning went at the punching bag while the professor stood by and
called the changes. He thumped it up against the ceiling and caught it
on the rebound thirty times in succession, first with his right and then
with his left. Then he went at it with both hands and fairly made it
hum. Then, at the word, with remarkable swiftness, he gave it fist and
elbow, first right and then left. Then he did some fancy work at a
combination hit and butt.

By the time Buster called him off Browning was streaming with
perspiration and breathing heavily.

"Dat's first rate," complimented the professor. "Yer does dat like yer
wuz a perfessional."

"Great Scott!" gasped Bruce. "I'd never torture myself in this way if I
didn't have to! It is awful!"

He looked around for a chair, but Buster grinned and said:

"Dat's right, set right down--nit. Youse don't do dat no more in dis
joint. Wen I gits yer yere, yer works till yer t'rough--see? Dat's der
way ter pull der meat off er man."

"Well, what's next?"

"See if yer