"Cut it. Cut it now.--Say, Saxon, you ain't so big yourself, are
you? But you're built just right if anybody should ask you.
You're round an' slender at the same time. I bet I can guess your
weight."

"Everybody guesses over it," she warned, while inwardly she was
puzzled that she should at the same time be glad and regretful
that he did not fight any more.

"Not me," he was saying. "I'm a wooz at weight-guessin'. Just you
watch me." He regarded her critically, and it was patent that
warm approval played its little rivalry with the judgment of his
gaze. "Wait a minute."

He reached over to her and felt her arm at the biceps. The
pressure of the encircling fingers was firm and honest, and Saxon
thrilled to it. There was magic in this man-boy. She would have
known only irritation had Bert or any other man felt her arm. But
this man! IS HE THE MAN? she was questioning, when he voiced his
conclusion.

"Your clothes don't weigh more'n seven pounds. And seven
from--hum--say one hundred an' twenty-three--one hundred an'
sixteen is your stripped weight."

But at the penultimate word, Mary cried out with sharp reproof:

"Why, Billy Roberts, people don't talk about such things."