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CHAPTER IX
HANDING BOBBY A BLANK

Say, what do you make out of this plute huntin’ business, anyway? Has the big money bunch got us down on the mat with our wind shut off and our pockets inside out; or is it just campaign piffle? Are we ghost dancin’, or waltz dreamin’, or what? It sure has me twisted up for fair, and I don’t know whether I stand with the criminal rich or the predatory poor.

That’s all on account of a little mix-up I was rung into at the hotel Perzazzer the other day. No, we ain’t livin’ there reg’lar again. This was just a little fall vacation we was takin’ in town, so Sadie can catch up with her shoppin’, and of course the Perzazzer seems more or less like home to us.

But it ain’t often I’ve ever run against anything like this there. I’ve been thinkin’ it over since, and it’s left me with my feet in the air. No, you didn’t read anything about it in the papers. But say, there’s more goes on in one of them big joints every week than would fill a whole issue.

Look at the population the Perzazzer’s got, – over two thousand, countin’ the help! Why, drop us down somewhere out in Iowa, and spread us around in separate houses, and there’d be enough to call for a third-class postmaster, a police force, and a board of trade. Bunched the way we are, all up and down seventeen stories, with every cubic foot accounted for, we don’t cut much of a figure except on the checkbooks. You hear about the Perzazzer only when some swell gives a fancy blow-out, or a guest gets frisky in the public dining room.

And anything in the shape of noise soon has the muffler put on it. We’ve got a whole squad of husky, two-handed, soft spoken gents who don’t have anything else to do, and our champeen ruction extinguisher is Danny Reardon. To see him strollin’ through the café, you might think he was a corporation lawyer studyin’ how to spend his next fee; but let some ambitious wine opener put on the loud pedal, or have Danny get his eye on some Bridgeport dressmaker drawin’ designs of the latest Paris fashions in the tea room, and you’ll see him wake up. Nothing seems to get by him.

So I was some surprised to find him havin’ an argument with a couple of parties away up on our floor. Anyone could see with one eye that they was a pair of butt-ins. The tall, smooth faced gent in the black frock coat and the white tie had sky pilot wrote all over him; and the Perzazzer ain’t just the place an out of town minister would pick out to stop at, unless he wanted to blow a year’s salary into a week’s board.

Anyway, his runnin’ mate was a dead give away. He looked like he might have just left a bench in the Oriental lodgin’ house down at Chatham Square. He’s a thin, gawky, pale haired youth, with tired eyes and a limp lower jaw that leaves his mouth half open all the time; and his costume looks like it had been made up from back door contributions, – a faded coat three sizes too small, a forty fat vest, and a pair of shiny black whipcord pants that someone had been married in about twenty years back.

What gets me is why such a specimen should be trailin’ around with a clean, decent lookin’ chap like this minister. Maybe that’s why I come to take any notice of their little debate. There’s some men, though, that you always give a second look at, and this minister gent was one of that kind. It wa’n’t until I see how he tops Danny by a head that I notices how well built he is; and I figures that if he was only in condition, and knew how to handle himself, he could put up a good lively scrap. Something about his jaw hints that to me; but of course, him bein’ a Bible pounder, I don’t expect anything of the kind.

“Yes, I understand all that,” Danny was tellin’ him; “but you’d better come down to the office, just the same.”

“My dear man,” says the minister, “I have been to the office, as I told you before, and I could get no satisfaction there. The person I wish to see is on the ninth floor. They say he is out. I doubt it, and, as I have come six hundred miles just to have a word with him, I insist on a chance to – ”

“Sure!” says Danny. “You’ll get your chance, only it’s against the rules to allow strangers above the ground floor. Now, you come along with me and you’ll be all right.” With that Danny gets a grip on the gent’s arm and starts to walk him to the elevator. But he don’t go far. The next thing Danny knows he’s been sent spinnin’ against the other wall. Course, he wa’n’t lookin’ for any such move; but it was done slick and prompt.

“Sorry,” says the minister, shovin’ his cuffs back in place; “but I must ask you to keep your hands off.”

I see what Danny was up to then. He looks as cool as a soda fountain; but he’s red behind his ears, and he’s fishin’ the chain nippers out of his side pocket. I knows that in about a minute the gent in the frock coat will have both hands out of business. Even at that, it looks like an even bet, with somebody gettin’ hurt more or less. And blamed if I didn’t hate to see that spunky minister get mussed up, just for objectin’ to takin’ the quiet run out. So I pushes to the front.

“Well, well!” says I, shovin’ out a hand to the parson, as though he was someone I’d been lookin’ for. “So you showed up, eh?”

“Why,” says he, – “why – er – ”

“Yes, I know,” says I, headin’ him off. “You can tell me about that later. Bring your friend right in; this is my door. It’s all right, Danny; mistakes will happen.”

And before any of ’em knows what’s up, Danny is left outside with his mouth open, while I’ve towed the pair of strays into our sittin’ room, and shooed Sadie out of the way. The minister looks kind of dazed; but he keeps his head well.

“Really,” says he, gazin’ around, “I am sure there must be some misunderstanding.”

“You bet,” says I, “and it was gettin’ worse every minute. About two shakes more, and you’d been the center of a local disturbance that would have landed you before the police sergeant.”

“Do you mean,” says he, “that I cannot communicate with a guest in this hotel without being liable to arrest?”

“That’s the size of it,” says I. “Danny had the bracelets all out. The conundrum is, though, Why I should do the goat act, instead of lettin’ you two mix it up? But that’s what happened, and now I guess it’s up to you to give an account.”

“H’m!” says he. “It isn’t quite clear; but I infer that you have, in a way, made yourself responsible for me. May I ask whom I have to thank for – ”

“I’m Shorty McCabe,” says I.

“Oh!” says he. “It seems to me I’ve heard – ”

“Nothing like bein’ well advertised,” says I. “Now, how about you – and this?” With that I points to the specimen in the cast offs, that was givin’ an imitation of a flytrap. It was a little crisp, I admit; but I’m gettin’ anxious to know where I stand.

The minister lifts his eyebrows some, but proceeds to hand out the information. “My name is Hooker,” says he, – “Samuel Hooker.”

“Preacher?” says I.

“Ye-es, a poor one,” says he. “Where? Well, in the neighborhood of Mossy Dell, Pennsylvania.”

“Out in the celluloid collar belt, eh?” says I. “This ain’t a deacon, is it?” and I jerks my thumb at the fish eyed one.

“This unfortunate fellow,” says he, droppin’ a hand on the object’s shoulder, “is one of our industrial products. His name is Kronacher, commonly called Dummy.”

“I can guess why,” says I. “But now let’s get down to how you two happen to be loose on the seventh floor of the Perzazzer and so far from Mossy Dell.”

The Reverend Sam says there ain’t any great mystery about that. He come on here special to have a talk with a party by the name of Rankin, that he understood was stoppin’ here.

“You don’t mean Bobby Brut, do you?” says I.

“Robert K. Rankin is the young man’s name, I believe,” says he, – “son of the late Loring Rankin, president of the Consolidated – ”

“That’s Bobby Brut,” says I. “Don’t catch onto the Brut, eh? You would if you read the champagne labels. Friend of yours, is he?”

But right there the Rev. Mr. Hooker turns balky. He hints that his business with Bobby is private and personal, and he ain’t anxious to lay it before a third party. He’d told ’em the same at the desk, when someone from Bobbie’s rooms had ’phoned for details about the card, and then he’d got the turn down. But he wa’n’t the kind that stayed down. He’s goin’ to see Mr. Rankin or bu’st. Not wantin’ to ask for the elevator, he blazes ahead up the stairs; and Danny, it seems, hadn’t got on his track until he was well started.

“All I ask,” says he, “is five minutes of Mr. Rankin’s time. That is not an unreasonable request, I hope?”

“Excuse me,” says I; “but you’re missin’ the point by a mile. It ain’t how long you want to stay, but what you’re here for. You got to remember that things is run different on Fifth-ave. from what they are on Penrose-st., Mossy Dell. You might be a book agent, or a bomb thrower, for all the folks at the desk know. So the only way to get next to anyone here is to show your hand and take the decision. Now if you want to try runnin’ the outside guard again, I’ll call Danny back. But you’ll make a mess of it.”

He thinks that over for a minute, lookin’ me square in the eye all the time, and all of a sudden he puts out his hand. “You’re right,” says he. “I was hot headed, and let my zeal get the better of my commonsense. Thank you, Mr. McCabe.”

“That’s all right,” says I. “You go down to the office and put your case to ’em straight.”

“No,” says he, shruggin’ his shoulders, “that wouldn’t do at all. I suppose I’ve come on a fool’s errand. Kronacher, we’ll go back.”

“That’s too bad,” says I, “if you had business with Bobby that was on the level.”

“Since you’ve been so kind,” says he, “perhaps you would give me your opinion – if I am not detaining you?”

“Spiel away!” says I. “I’ll own up you’ve got me some interested.”

Well, say, when he’d described his visit as a dippy excursion, he wa’n’t far off. Seems that this Rev. Sam Hooker ain’t a reg’lar preacher, with a stained glass window church, a steam heated parsonage, and a settled job. He’s sort of a Gospel promoter, that goes around plantin’ churches here and there, – home missionary, he calls it, though I always thought a home missionary was one that was home from China on a half-pay visit.

Mainly he says he drifts around through the coke oven and glass works district, where all the Polackers and other dagoes work. He don’t let it go with preachin’ to ’em, though. He pokes around among their shacks, seein’ how they live, sendin’ doctors for sick babies, givin’ the women folks hints on the use of fresh air and hard soap, an’ advisin’ ’em to keep their kids in school. He’s one of them strenuous chaps, too, that believes in stirrin’ up a fuss whenever he runs across anything he thinks is wrong. One of the fights he’s been making is something about the boys in the glass works.

“Perhaps you have heard of our efforts to have a child labor bill passed in our State?” says he.

“No,” says I; “but I’m against it. There’s enough kids has to answer the mill whistle, without passin’ laws to make ’em.”

Then he explains how the bill is to keep ’em from goin’ at it too young, or workin’ too many hours on a stretch. Course, I’m with him on that, and says so.

“Ah!” says he. “Then you may be interested to learn that young Mr. Rankin is the most extensive employer of child labor in our State. That is what I want to talk to him about.”

“Ever see Bobby?” says I.

He says he hasn’t.

“Know anything of his habits, and so on?” I asks.

“Not a thing,” says the Rev. Sam.

“Then you take it from me,” says I, “that you ain’t missed much.”

See? I couldn’t go all over that record of Bobby Brut’s, specially to a preacher. Not that Bobby was the worst that ever cruised around the Milky Way in a sea goin’ cab with his feet over the dasher; but he was something of a torrid proposition while he lasted. You remember some of his stunts, maybe? I hadn’t kept strict tabs on him; but I’d heard that after they chucked him out of the sanatorium his mother planted him here, with a man nurse and a private doctor, and slid off to Europe to stay with her son-in-law Count until folks forgot about Bobby.

And this was the youth the Rev. Mr. Hooker had come to have a heart to heart talk with!

“Ain’t you takin’ a lot of trouble, just for a few Polackers?” says I.

“They are my brothers,” says he, quiet like.

“What!” says I. “You don’t look it.”

His mouth corners flickers a little at that, and there comes a glimmer in them solemn gray eyes of his; but he goes on to say that it’s part of his belief that every man is his brother.

“Gee!” says I. “You’ve adopted a big fam’ly.”

But say, he’s so dead in earnest about it, and he talks so sensible about other things, besides appearin’ so white clear through, that I can’t help likin’ the cuss.

“Look here!” says I. “This is way out of my line, and it strikes me as a batty proposition anyway; but if you’re still anxious to have a chin with Bobby, maybe I can fix it.”

“Thank you, thank you!” says he, givin’ me the grateful grip.

It’s a good deal easier than I’d thought. All I does is get one of Bobby’s retinue on the house ’phone, tell who I am, and say I was thinkin’ of droppin’ up with a couple of friends for a short call, if Bobby’s agreeable. Seems he was, for inside of two minutes we’re on our way up in the elevator.

Got any idea of the simple way a half baked young plute can live in a place like the Perzazzer? He has one floor of a whole wing cut off for his special use, – about twenty rooms, I should judge, – and there was hired hands standin’ around in every corner. We’re piloted in over the Persian rugs, with the preacher blinkin’ his eyes to keep from seein’ some of the statuary and oil paintin’s.

At last we comes to a big room with an eastern exposure, furnished like a show window. Sittin’ at a big mahogany table in the middle is a narrow browed, pop eyed, bat eared young chap in a padded silk dressin’ gown, and I remembers him for the Bobby Brut I used to see floatin’ around with the Trixy-Madges at the lobster palaces. He has a couple of decks of cards laid out in front of him, and I guesses he’s havin’ a go at Canfield solitaire. Behind his chair stands a sour faced lackey who holds up his hand for us to wait.

Bobby don’t look up at all. He’s shiftin’ the cards around, tryin’ to make ’em come out right, doin’ it quick and nervous. All of a sudden the lackey claps his hand down on a pile and says, “Beg pardon, sir, but you can’t do that.”

“Blast you!” snarls Bobby. “And I was just getting it! Why didn’t you look the other way? Bah!” and he sends the whole lot flyin’ on the floor. Do you catch on? He has the lackey there to see that he don’t cheat himself.

But while the help was pickin’ up the cards Bobby gets a glimpse of our trio, ranged up against the door draperies.

“Hello, Shorty McCabe!” he sings out. “It’s bully of you to drop in. Nobody comes to see me any more – hardly a soul. Say, do you think there’s anything the matter with my head?”

“Can’t say your nut shows any cracks from here,” says I. “Who’s been tellin’ you it did?”

“Why, all those blasted doctors,” says he. “They won’t even let me go out alone. But say,” here he beckons me up and whispers mysterious, “I’ll fix ’em yet! You just wait till I get my animals trained. You wait!” Then he claps his hands and hollers, “Atkins! Set ’em going!”

Atkins, he stops scrabblin’ after the cards and starts around the room. And say, would you believe it, on all the tables and mantelpieces was a lot of those toy animals, such as they sell durin’ the holidays. There was lions and tigers and elephants, little and big, and every last one of ’em has its head balanced so it’ll move up and down when you touch it. Atkins’ job was to go from one to the other and set ’em bobbin’. Them on the mantels wa’n’t more’n a few inches long; but on the floor, hid behind chairs, was some that was life size. One was a tiger, made out of a real skin, and when his head goes his jaws open and shut, and his tail lashes from side to side, as natural as life. Say, it was weird to watch that collection, all noddin’ away together – almost gave you the willies!

“Are they all going?” says Bobby.

“Yes, sir,” says Atkins, standin’ attention.

“What do you think, eh?” says Bobbie, half shuttin’ his pop eyes and starin’ at me, real foxy.

“Great scheme!” says I. “Didn’t know you had a private zoo up here. But say, I brought along someone that wants to have a little chin with you.”

With that I hauls the Rev. Sam to the front and gives him the nudge to fire away. And say, he’s all primed! He begins by givin’ Bobbie a word picture of the Rankin glass works at night, when the helpers are carryin’ the trays from the hot room, where the blowers work three-hour shifts, with the mercury at one hundred and twenty, to the coolin’ room, where it’s like a cellar. He tells him how many helpers there are, how many hours they work a day, and what they get for it. It didn’t make me yearn for a job.

“And here,” says the Rev. Mr. Hooker, pullin’ the Dummy up by the sleeve, “is what happens. This boy went to work in your glass factory when he was thirteen. He was red cheeked, clear eyed, then, and he had a normal brain. He held his job six years. Then he was discharged. Why? Because he wasn’t of any more use. He was all in, the juice sapped out of him, as dry as a last year’s cornhusk. Look at him! Any doubt about his being used up? And what happened to him is happening to thousands of other boys. So I have come here to ask you, Mr. Rankin, if you are proud of turning out such products? Aren’t you ready to stop hiring thirteen-year-old boys for your works?”

Say, it was straight from the shoulder, that talk, – no flourishes, no fine words! And what do you guess Bobby Brut has to say? Not a blamed thing! I doubt if he heard more’n half of it, anyway; for he’s got his eyes set on that pasty face of Dummy Kronacher, and is followin’ his motions.

The Dummy ain’t payin’ any attention to the speech, either. He’s got sight of all them animals with their heads bobbin’, and a silly grin spreads over his face. First he sidles over to the mantel and touches up one that was about stopped. Then he sees another, and starts that off again, and by the time Hooker is through the Dummy is as busy and contented as you please, keepin’ them tigers and things movin’.

“Well?” says the Rev. Sam.

“Eh?” says Bobby, tearin’ his eyes off the Dummy. “Were you saying something about the glass works? Beastly bore! I never go near them. But say! I want that chap over there. I want to hire him. What’s his name?”

“Dummy Kronacher,” says the Rev. Sam, comin’ out strong on the first word.

“Good!” says Bobbie. “Hey, Dummy? What will you take to stay here with me and do that right along?”

Dummy has just discovered a stuffed alligator that can snap its jaws and wiggle its tail. He only looks up and grins.

“I’ll make it a hundred a month,” says Bobbie. “Well, that’s settled. Atkins, you’re fired! And say, McCabe, I must show this new man how I want this business done. You and your friend run in some other time, will you?”

“But,” says Hooker, “can’t you do something about those helpers? Won’t you promise to – ”

“No!” snaps Bobby. “I’ve no time to bother with such things. Atkins, show ’em out!”

Well, we went. We goes so sudden the Rev. Sam forgets about leavin’ the Dummy until we’re outside, and then he’s for goin’ back after him.

“What for?” says I. “That pair’ll get along fine; they’re two of a kind.”

“I guess you’re right,” says he. “And it’s something to have brought those two together. Perhaps someone will see the significance of it, some day.”

Now what was he drivin’ at then? You can search me. All I’ve been able to make out of it is that what ails the poor is poverty, and the trouble with the plutes is that they’ve got too much. Eh? Barney Shaw said something like that too? Well, don’t let on I agree with him. He might get chesty.

CHAPTER X
MARMADUKE SLIPS ONE OVER

And you’d almost think I could accumulate enough freaks, all by myself, without havin’ my friends pass theirs along, wouldn’t you? Yet lemme tell you what Pinckney rung up on me.

He comes into the Studio one day towin’ a party who wears brown spats and a brown ribbon to his shell rimmed eyeglasses, and leaves him planted in a chair over by the window, where he goes to rubbin’ his chin with a silver-handled stick while we dive into the gym. for one of our little half-hour sessions. Leaves him there without sayin’ a word, mind you, like you’d stand an umbrella in the corner!

“Who’s the silent gazooks you run on the siding out front?” says I.

“Why,” says Pinckney, “that’s only Marmaduke.”

“Only!” says I. “I should say Marmaduke was quite some of a name. Anything behind it? He ain’t a blank, is he?”

“Who, Marmaduke?” says he. “Far from it! In fact, he has a most individual personality.”

“That sounds good,” says I; “but does it mean anything? Who is he, anyway?”

“Ask him, Shorty, ask him,” says Pinckney, and as he turns to put his coat on the hanger I gets a glimpse of that merry eye-twinkle of his.

“Go on – I’m easy,” says I. “I’d look nice, wouldn’t I, holdin’ a perfect stranger up for his pedigree?”

“But I assure you he’d be pleased to give it,” says Pinckney, “and, more than that, I want to be there to hear it myself.”

“Well, you’re apt to strain your ears some listenin’,” says I. “This ain’t my day for askin’ fool questions.”

You never can tell, though. We hadn’t much more’n got through our mitt exercise, and Pinckney was only half into his afternoon tea uniform, when there’s a ’phone call for him. And the next thing I know he’s hustled into his frock coat and rushed out.

Must have been five minutes later when I fin’lly strolls into the front office, to find that mysterious Marmaduke is still holdin’ down the chair and gazin’ placid out onto 42d-st. It looks like he’d been forgotten and hadn’t noticed the fact.

One of these long, loose jointed, languid actin’ gents, Marmaduke is; the kind that can drape themselves careless and comf’table over almost any kind of furniture. He’s a little pop eyed, his hair is sort of a faded tan color, and he’s whopper jawed on the left side; but beyond that he didn’t have any striking points of facial beauty. It’s what you might call an interestin’ mug, though, and it’s so full of repose that it seems almost a shame to disturb him.

Someone had to notify him, though, that he’d overslept. I tried clearin’ my throat and shufflin’ my feet to bring him to; but that gets no action at all. So there was nothing for it but to go over and tap him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” says I, “but your friend has gone.”

“Ah, quite so,” says he, still starin’ out of the window and rubbin’ his chin. “’Tis a way friends have. They come, and they go. Quite so.”

“Nobody’s debatin’ that point,” says I; “but just now I wa’n’t speakin’ of friends in gen’ral. I was referrin’ to Pinckney. He didn’t leave any word; but I suspicion he was called up by – ”

“Thanks,” breaks in Marmaduke. “I know. Mrs. Purdy-Pell consults him about dinner favors – tremendous trifles, to be coped with only by a trained intelligence. We meet at the club later.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” says I. “In that case, make yourself to home. Have an evening paper?”

“Please take it away,” says he. “I might be tempted to read about the beastly stock market.”

“Been taking a little flyer, eh?” says I.

“What, I?” says he. “Why, I haven’t enough cash to buy a decent dinner. But everybody you meet follows the market, you know. It’s a contagious disease.”

“So?” says I. “Now I’ve been exposed a lot and haven’t caught it very hard.”

“Gifted of the gods!” says he.

“Eh?” says I.

“I’m Marmaduke, you know,” says he.

“I’ve heard that much,” says I.

“To him that hath ears – mufflers,” says he.

“Mufflers?” says I. “I guess I must be missin’ some of my cues, Mister.”

“Never care,” says he. “Why cry over spilt milk when one can keep a cat?”

“Look here!” says I. “Are you stringin’ me, or am I stringin’ you?”

“Of what use to fret the oracle?” says he. “They say silence is golden – well, I’ve spent mine.”

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 soufflé,” 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. 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.