“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.