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!”