ing, as Clem was blacking his boots. Perhaps he had made private calculations on a blacking-brush hitting a man with less damage than some larger article.
"I say, Clem!" Quimby began, "I—I want to ask your advice, you know!"
"I am at your service, my dear boy," replied the unsuspecting Clem, rubbing away at his boot.
"Well—I—I want to know—the fact is, I—I am boiling over with love!"
"What!" exclaimed Clem, looking up with an amused smile, "you are not in love with Cyn too, are you?"
"With Cyn, too?" These words were balm to the soul of Quimby, and gave him courage to answer eagerly,
"Ah! no use in that for me, you know! It—it is she—Miss Rogers—Nattie—you know!"
The blacking-brush left Clem's hand, but not to fly at the expectant Quimby. It simply dropped onto the floor, while Clem gave vent to his feelings in a prolonged whistle.
"Is it possible!" he said, having thus relieved himself of his first astonishment. "I might have suspected as much if I had stopped to think, though!"
"Yes, I—I think I showed it plain enough, you
