And, say, he had me doin' the spiral dip at that. I don't mind indulgin'

in a little foolish conversation now and then; but I hate to have it so one sided. And, honest, so far as I figured, he might have been readin'

the label off a tea chest. So with that I counters with one of my rough and ready comebacks.

"Marmaduke--did you say it was?" says I. "If you did, where's the can?"

"By Jove! That's rather good, though!" says he, rappin' the floor with his stick. "A little crude; but the element is there. Brava!

Bravissimo!"

"Stirred up the pigeons, anyway," says I.

"Pigeons?" says he, lookin' puzzled.

"Well, well!" says I. "And he wants a diagram for that mossy one! Loft, you know," and I taps my forehead.

"Almost worthy of my steel!" says he, jumpin' up and shovin' out his hand. "Well met, Brother!"

"I don't know which of us has a call to get chesty over it; but here's how," says I, takin' the friendly palm he holds out. "Seein' it's gone this far, though, maybe you'll tell me who in blazes you are!"

And there I'd gone and done just what Pinckney had egged me to do.

Course, the minute I asked the question I knew I'd given him a chance to slip one over on me; but I wa'n't lookin' for quite such a double jointed jolt.

"Who am I?" says he. "Does it matter? Well, if it does, I am easily accounted for. Behold an anachronism!"

"A which?" says I.

"An anachronism," says he once more.

"I pass," says I. "Is it part of Austria, or just a nickname for some alfalfa district out West?"

"Brave ventures," says he; "but vain. One's place of birth doesn't count if one's twentieth century mind has a sixteenth century attitude. That's my trouble; or else I'm plain lazy, which I don't in the least admit. Do you follow me?"

"I'm dizzy from it," says I.

"The confession is aptly put," he goes on, "and the frankness of it does you credit. But I perceive. You would class me by peg and hole. Well, I'm no peg for any hole. I don't fit. On the floor of life's great workshop I just kick around. There you have me--ah--what?"

"Maybe," says I; "but take my advice and don't ever spring that description on any desk Sergeant. It may be good; but it sounds like loose bearin's."

"Ah!" says he. "The metaphor of to-morrow! Speak on, Sir Galahad!"

"All right," says I. "I know it's runnin' a risk; but I'll chance one more: What part of the map do you hail from, Marmaduke?"

"My proper home," says he, "is the Forest of Arden; but where that is I know not."

"Why," says I, "then you belong in the new Harriman State Park. Anyway, there's a station by that name out on the Erie road."

"Rails never ran to Arden Wood," says he, "nor ever will. Selah!"

"Sounds like an old song," says I. "Are you taken this way often?"

"I'm Marmaduke, you know," says he.

"Sure, that's where we begun," says I; "but it's as far as we got. Is bein' Marmaduke your steady job?"

"Some would call it so," says he. "I try to make of it an art."

"You win," says I. "What can I set up?"

"Thanks," says he. "Pinckney has thoughtlessly taken his cigarette case with him."

So I sends Swifty out for a box of the most expensive dope sticks he can find. Maybe it wouldn't strike everybody that way; but to me it seemed like bein' entertained at cut rates. Next to havin' a happy dream about nothing I could remember afterwards, I guess this repartee bout with Marmaduke gets the ribbon. It was like blowin' soap bubbles to music,--sort of soothin' and cheerin' and no wear and tear on the brain.

He stayed until closin' up time, and I was almost sorry to have him go.

"Come around again," says I, "when the fog is thinner."

"I'm certain to," says he. "I'm Marmaduke, you know."

And the curious thing about that remark was that after you'd heard it four or five times it filled the bill. I didn't want to know any more, and it was only because Pinckney insisted on givin' me the details that the mystery was partly cleared up.

"Well," says he, "what did you think of Marmaduke?"

"Neither of us did any thinkin'," says I. "I just watched the butterflies."

"You what?" says Pinckney.

"Oh, call 'em bats, then!" says I. "He's got a dome full."

"You mean you thought Marmaduke a bit off?" says he. "Nothing of the kind, Shorty. Why, he's a brilliant chap,--Oxford, Heidelberg, and all that sort of thing. He's written plays that no one will put on, books that no one will publish, and composed music that few can understand."

"I can believe it," says I. "Also he can use language that he invents as he goes along. Entertainin' cuss, though."

"A philosopher souffle," says Pinckney.

"Does it pay him well?" says I.

"It's no joke," says Pinckney. "The little his father left him is gone, and what's coming from his Uncle Norton he doesn't get until the uncle dies. Meanwhile he's flat broke and too proud to beg or borrow."

"Never tried trailin' a pay envelope, did he?" says I.

"But he doesn't know how," says Pinckney. "His talents don't seem to be marketable. I am trying to think of something he could do. And did you know, Shorty, he's taken quite a fancy to you?"

"They all do," says I; "but Marmaduke's easier to stand than most of 'em.

Next time I'm threatened with the willies I'll send for him and offer to hire him by the hour."

As a matter of fact, I didn't have to; for he got into the habit of blowin' into the studio every day or two, and swappin' a few of his airy fancies for my mental short-arm jabs. He said it did him good, and somehow or other it always chirked me up too.

And the more I saw of Marmaduke, the less I thought about the bats. Get under the surface, and he wa'n't nutty at all. He just had a free flow of funny thoughts and odd ways of expressin' 'em. Most of us are so shy of lettin' go of any sentiments that can't be had on a rubber stamp that it takes a mighty small twist to put a person in the queer class.

However, business is business, and I'd just as soon Marmaduke hadn't been on hand the other day when Pyramid Gordon comes in with one of his heavyweight broker friends. Course, I didn't know anything about the stranger; but I know Pyramid, and his funnybone was fossilized years ago.