pianola!

From the running track or the medicine-ball court I would repair to the
steam room and simmer pleasantly in a temperature of 240 degrees
Fahrenheit--I am sure I have the figures right--until all I needed before
being served was to have the gravy slightly thickened with flour and a
dash of water cress added here and there. Having remained in the steam
cabinet until quite done, I next would jump into the swimming pool, which
concluded the afternoon's entertainment.

Jumping into the cool water of the pool was supposed to reseal the pores
which the treatment in the hot room had caused to open. In the best
gymnasium circles it is held to be a fine thing to have these educated
pores, but I am sure it can be overdone, and personally I cannot say that
I particularly enjoyed it. I kept it up largely for their sake. They
became highly trained, but developed temperament. They were apt to get the
signals mixed and open unexpectedly on the street, resulting in bad colds
for me.

For six weeks, on every week day from three to five P.M. I maintained this
schedule religiously--at least I used a good many religious words while so
engaged--and then I went on the scales to find out what progress I had
made toward attaining the desired result. I had kept off the scales until
then because I was saving up, as it were, to give myself a nice jolly
surprise party.

So I weighed. And I had picked up nine pounds and a half! That was what I
had gained for all my sufferings and all my exertions--that, along with a
set of snappy but emotional pores and a personal knowledge of how a New
England boiled dinner feels just before it comes on the table.