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.”