“A which?” says I.
“An anachronism,” says he once more.
“I pass,” says I. “Is it part of Austria, or just a nickname for some alfalfa district out West?”
“Brave ventures,” says he; “but vain. One’s place of birth doesn’t count if one’s twentieth century mind has a sixteenth century attitude. That’s my trouble; or else I’m plain lazy, which I don’t in the least admit. Do you follow me?”
“I’m dizzy from it,” says I.
“The confession is aptly put,” he goes on, “and the frankness of it does you credit. But I perceive. You would class me by peg and hole. Well, I’m no peg for any hole. I don’t fit. On the floor of life’s great workshop I just kick around. There you have me—ah—what?”
“Maybe,” says I; “but take my advice and don’t ever spring that description on any desk Sergeant. It may be good; but it sounds like loose bearin’s.”
“Ah!” says he. “The metaphor of to-morrow! Speak on, Sir Galahad!”
“All right,” says I. “I know it’s runnin’ a risk; but I’ll chance one more: What part of the map do you hail from, Marmaduke?”
“My proper home,” says he, “is the Forest of Arden; but where that is I know not.”