“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.