"Bless my soul!" he gasped, turning round and round, trying to get a glimpse of his own coat-tails. "How did it come there? what is it?"
"It is—was Charlotte Russe!" said Nattie, in gloomy despair.
"Charlotte Russe!" echoed Quimby, still turning himself around like a revolving light. "It—it don't look much like it, you know!"
At this, Mr. Stanwood, who had with difficulty suppressed his laughter until now, burst into an uncontrollable roar, in which he was joined by Cyn, and then by Nattie. They laughed until utterly exhausted, Quimby all the time keeping up his rotatory motion, with a face whose lugubriousness cannot be described.
"I—I—bless my soul! I will replace what I have destroyed! I—I assure you, I will!" the unfortunate Quimby groaned, as soon as he could be heard. "I—what can I say, to express my sorrow—I—" and suddenly ceasing to revolve, he snatched Mr. Stanwood's hat, and started for the door.
"Where are you going!" his friend questioned as gravely as he could.
"More Charlotte Russes!" he responded incoherently, and with an agonized face.
"If I may be permitted to make a suggestion," said Mr. Stanwood with labored gravity, "I should
