in' 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!"

"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."

"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 thoughtlessl