“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.