*

Why should Snorky Green then inspire such passions while he passed
lonely and unloved? No, certainly Snorky was not beautiful. He had a
smudgy, stubby little nose. He was lop-eared and the dank yellow hair
fell about his puffy eyes in straight, unrippling shocks. Yet four women
(three blondes and a brunette) watched with affectionate glances the
progress of his casual morning toilette. Why?

The next morning, as Skippy reluctantly rose and gazed upon the feminine
galaxy waiting at the bureau that was not his, the sense of his own
inferiority again smote him. Envy is the corrupting cancer of
friendship. He did like Snorky. He yearned for the life-and-death
devotion of a chum of chums; a sort of Damon and Pythias, D'Artagnan and
Athos affair--but, while this sense of inferiority continued, the shadow
was over the fair sunlit landscape of impulsive friendship. It was so,
and the feeling would not down.

That evening, being alone, he stood again contemplating the evidence of
Snorky Green's predatory progress among the ladies. He examined the four
photographs carefully.

"They can't all be sisters," he said gloomily; besides, he knew that his
roommate, more fortunate than he, had to bear but one such cross.
"Danged if I can see what gets them. If that fellow's a lady charmer,
I'll hire out for a matinee idol!"

On the pin cushion was a pin in the shape of an arrow (an arrow of
course suggested a transpierced heart), which Snorky wore for important
ceremonies, when he donned a perpendicular collar and a white coaching
tie. On the wall was a Farmington banner and on the sofa five pillows
worked by loving feminine hands.

"Sisters never go to that trouble," said Skippy, secure in his knowledge
of sister nature. "By the great horned spoon this can't go on. I've
either got to lick the stuffin's out of him or--"

Without finishing his phrase, he went to the table, drew forth Caesar's
"Gallic Wars," and a copy of "Lorna Doone" and immediately began to
concentrate. A moment later Snorky Green arrived chuckling from a foray
down the hall where he had just deposited a moth ball in the lamp
chimney of Beckstein, the Midnight Poler. He came in rollicking and
triumphant, slamming and locking the door against a sudden reprisal.
Then, seeing Skippy, he stiffened, scowled, and assumed an air of frigid
dignity. Skippy, with his eye on a convenient mirror, followed his
movements expectantly.

Snorky, having glared sufficiently