“Look here, old chap,” he said, “I seem to have put my foot into it again. I didn’t mean to, really. Peggy gave me hell this morning for not treating you as a man and a brother, and I came round to try to put things right.”
“It’s very considerate of Peggy, I’m sure,” said Marmaduke.
“Now look here, old Doggie——”
“I told you when we first met yesterday that I vehemently object to being called Doggie.”
“But why?” asked Oliver. “I’ve made inquiries, and find that all your pals——”
“I haven’t any pals, as you call them.”
“Well, all our male contemporaries in the place who have the honour of your acquaintance—they all call you Doggie, and you don’t seem to mind.”
“I do mind,” replied Marmaduke angrily, “but as I avoid their company as much as possible, it doesn’t very much matter.”
Oliver stretched out his legs and put his hands behind his back—then wriggled to his feet. “What a beast of a chair! Anyhow,” he went on, puffing at his pipe, “don’t let us quarrel. I’ll call you Marmaduke, if you like, when I can remember—it’s a beast of a name—like the chair. I’m a rough sort of chap. I’ve had ten years’ pretty rough training. I’ve slept on boards. I’ve slept in the open without a cent to hire a board. I’ve gone cold and I’ve gone hungry, and men have knocked me about and I’ve knocked men about—and I’ve lost the Durdlebury sense of social values. In the wilds if a man once gets the name, say, of Duck-Eyed Joe, it sticks to him, and he accepts it and answers to it, and signs ‘Duck-Eyed Joe’ on an IOU and honours the signature.”
“But I’m not in the wilds,” said Marmaduke, “and haven’t the slightest intention of ever leading the unnatural and frightful life you describe. So what you say doesn’t apply to me.”