Somewhat exultant over the new aspect of affairs, and unable longer to endure the strain of the load of love he was carrying about with him, Quimby came to a desperate determination.
This was no other, than to confide in his room-mate, and once dreaded rival, and then, provided he was not thrown out of the window, or kicked down stairs, ask his advice about how to render himself clearly understood by her, at the same time relating his former unfortunate attempt.
This programme he carried into effect one morning, 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.