I claim that I have better information touching on what sustenance I need than any outsider ever can hope to have unless he breaks into me surgically.  I claim that a series of rational experiments should tell any rational human how much he needs to eat and what he needs to eat in order to reduce his bulk and yet keep his powers and his bodily vigor unimpaired.  I am not speaking now, understand me, of those unfortunates with whom obesity is a disease, but of those who owe their grossness of outline to gluttony.  Lacking vital statistics on the subject, I nevertheless dare assert that these latter constitute fully 90 per cent of those among the American people who are distinctly and uncomfortably and frequently unhealthily fat.

Remains but one fly in the ointment.  Since Tony Sarg is going to illustrate this treatise, then Tony must revise the old working plans.  For my figure is not so much pro as once it was.  It is more con, if you get my meaning—­the profile curves in toward, instead of being, as formerly, so noticeably from.

Still, I should worry about the troubles of an artist, even though a friend.  I weighed myself this morning.  Three months ago, when I set out to reduce my belt line and my collar size, I snatched the beam down ker-smack at two hundred and thirty-six pounds, stripped.  This morning I weighed exactly one hundred and ninety-seven, including amalgam fillings and the rights of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian.  One hundred and eighty-five pounds is my ultimate aim.  Howsoever, I may keep right on when I attain that figure and justify the title of this book by taking a full one third off.  In either event, though, I shall know exactly where I am going and I’m on my way.  And I feel bully and I’m happy about it and boastfully proud.

Three rousing cheers for lithesome grace regained!

THE END

[Transcriber’s note:  Obvious typos in this project were corrected.]