“Why,” says I, “then you belong in the new Harriman State Park. Anyway, there’s a station by that name out on the Erie road.”
“Rails never ran to Arden Wood,” says he, “nor ever will. Selah!”
“Sounds like an old song,” says I. “Are you taken this way often?”
“I’m Marmaduke, you know,” says he.
“Sure, that’s where we begun,” says I; “but it’s as far as we got. Is bein’ Marmaduke your steady job?”
“Some would call it so,” says he. “I try to make of it an art.”
“You win,” says I. “What can I set up?”
“Thanks,” says he. “Pinckney has thoughtlessly taken his cigarette case with him.”
So I sends Swifty out for a box of the most expensive dope sticks he can find. Maybe it wouldn’t strike everybody that way; but to me it seemed like bein’ entertained at cut rates. Next to havin’ a happy dream about nothing I could remember afterwards, I guess this repartee bout with Marmaduke gets the ribbon. It was like blowin’ soap bubbles to music,—sort of soothin’ and cheerin’ and no wear and tear on the brain. He stayed until closin’ up time, and I was almost sorry to have him go.