Marmaduke don't offer to make any break, though. He takes his fav'rite seat over by the window and goes to gazin' out and rubbin' his chin.

Seems that Mr. Gordon and his friend was both tangled up in some bank chain snarl that was worryin' 'em a lot. Things wouldn't be comin' to a head for forty-eight hours or so, and meantime all they could do was sit tight and wait.

Now, Pyramid's programme in a case of that kind is one I made out for him myself. It's simple. He comes to the studio for an hour of the roughest kind of work we can put through. After that he goes to his Turkish bath, and by the time his rubber is through with him he's ready for a private room and a ten hours' snooze. That's what keeps the gray out of his cheeks, and helps him look a Grand Jury summons in the face without goin'

shaky.

So it's natural he recommends the same course to this Mr. Gridley that he's brought along. Another thick-neck, Gridley is, with the same flat ears as Pyramid, only he's a little shorter and not quite so rugged around the chin.

"Here we are, now," says Pyramid, "and here's Professor McCabe, Gridley.

If he can't make you forget your troubles, you will be the first on record. Come on in and see."

But Gridley he shakes his head. "Nothing so strenuous for me," says he.

"My heart wouldn't stand it. I'll wait for you, though."

"Better come in and watch, then," says I, with a side glance at Marmaduke.

"No, thanks; I shall be quite as uncomfortable here," says Gridley, and camps his two hundred and ten pounds down in my desk chair.

It was a queer pair to leave together,--this Gridley gent, who was jugglin' millions, and gettin' all kinds of misery out of it, and Marmaduke, calm and happy, with barely one quarter to rub against another. But of course there wa'n't much chance of their findin' anything in common to talk about.

Anyway, I was too busy for the next hour to give 'em a thought, and by the time I'd got Pyramid breathin' like a leaky air valve and glowin'

like a circus poster all over, I'd clean forgot both of 'em. So, when I fin'lly strolls out absent minded, it's something of a shock to find 'em gettin' acquainted, Marmaduke tiltin' back careless in his chair, and Gridley eyin' him curious.

It appears that Pyramid's friend has got restless, discovered Marmaduke, and proceeded to try to tell him how near he comes to bein' a nervous wreck.

"Ever get so you couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't think of but one thing over and over?" he was just sayin'.

"To every coat of arms, the raveled sleeve of care," observes Marmaduke sort of casual.

"Hey?" says Gridley, facin' round on him sharp.

"As the poet puts it," Marmaduke rattles on,--

"You cannot gild the lily, Nor can you wet the sea; Pray tell me of my Bonnie, But bring her not to me!"

"Say, what the howling hyenas are you spouting about?" snorts Gridley, growin' purple back of the ears. "Who in thunder are you?"

"Don't!" says I, holdin' up a warnin' hand. But I'm too late. Marmaduke has bobbed up smilin'.

"A chip on the current," says he. "I'm Marmaduke, you know. No offense meant. And you were saying----"

"Huh!" grunts Gridley, calmin' down. "Can't wet the sea, eh? Not so bad, young man. You can't keep it still, either. It's the only thing that puts me to sleep when I get this way."

"Break, break, break--I know," says Marmaduke.

"That's it," says Gridley, "hearing the surf roar. I'd open up my seashore cottage just for the sake of a good night's rest, if it wasn't for the blasted seagulls. You've heard 'em in winter, haven't you, how they squeak around?"

"It's their wing hinges," says Marmaduke, solemn and serious.

"Eh?" says Gridley, gawpin' at him.

"Squeaky wing hinges," says Marmaduke. "You should oil them."

And, say, for a minute there, after Gridley had got the drift of that tomfool remark, I didn't know whether he was goin' to throw Marmaduke through the window, or have another fit. All of a sudden, though, he begins poundin' his knee.

"By George! but that's rich, young man!" says he. "Squeaky gulls' wing hinges! Haw-haw! Oil 'em! Haw-haw! How did you ever happen to think of it, eh?"

"One sweetly foolish thought," says Marmaduke. "I'm blessed with little else."

"Well, it's a blessing, all right," says Gridley. "I have 'em sometimes; but not so good as that. Say, I'll have to tell that to Gordon when he comes out. No, he wouldn't see anything in it. But see here, Mr.

Marmaduke, what have you got on for the evening, eh?"

"My tablets are cleaner than my cuffs," says he.

"Good work!" says Gridley. "What about coming out and having dinner with me?"

"With you or any man," says Marmaduke. "To dine's the thing."

With that, off they goes, leavin' Pyramid in the gym. doorway strugglin'

with his collar. Course, I does my best to explain what's happened.

"But who was the fellow?" says Mr. Gordon.

"Just Marmaduke," says I, "and if you don't want to get your thinker tied in a double bowknot you'll let it go at that. He's harmless. First off I thought his gears didn't mesh; but accordin' to Pinckney he's some kind of a philosopher."

"Gridley has a streak of that nonsense in him too," says Pyramid. "I only hope he gets it all out of his system by to-morrow night."

Well, from all I could hear he did; for there wa'n't any scarehead financial story in the papers, and I guess the bank snarl must have been straightened out all right. What puzzled me for a few days, though, was to think what had become of Marmaduke. He hadn't been around to the studio once; and Pinckney hadn't heard a word from him, either. Pinckney had it all framed up how Marmaduke was off starvin' somewhere.

It was only yesterday, too, that I looks up from the desk to see Marmaduke, all got up in an entire new outfit, standin' there smilin' and chipper.

"Well, well!" says I. "So you didn't hit the breadline, after all!"

"Perchance I deserved it," says he; "but there came one from the forest who willed otherwise."

"Ah, cut the josh for a minute," says I, "and tell us what you landed!"

"Gladly," says he. "I have been made the salaried secretary of the S. O.

S. G. W. H."

"Is it a new benefit order," says I, "or what?"

"The mystic letters," says he, "stand for the Society for Oiling Squeaky Gulls' Wing Hinges. Mr. Gridley is one member; I am the other."

And, say, you may not believe it, but hanged if it wa'n't a fact! He has a desk in Gridley's private office, and once a day he shows up there and scribbles off a foolish thought on the boss's calendar pad. That's all, except that he draws down good money for it.

"Also I have had word," says Marmaduke, "that my aged Uncle Norton is very low of a fever."

"Gee!" says I. "Some folks are born lucky, though!"