y 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.

"Come around again," says I, "when the fog is thinner."

"I'm certain to," says he. "I'm Marmaduke, you know."

And the curious thing about that remark was that after you'd heard it
four or five times it filled the bill. I didn't want to know any more,
and it was only because Pinckney insisted on givin' me the details that
the mystery was partly cleared up.

"Well," says he, "what did you think of Marmaduke?"

"Neither of us did any thinkin'," says I. "I just watched the
butterflies."

"You what?" says Pinckney.

"Oh, call 'em bats, then!" says I. "He's got a dome full."

"You mean you thought Marmaduke a bit off?" says he. "Nothing of the
kind, Shorty. Why, he's a brilliant chap,--Oxford, Heidelberg, and all
that sort of thing. He's written plays that no one will put on, books
that no one will publish, and composed music that few can understand."

"I can believe it," says I. "Also he can use language that he invents as
he goes along. Entertainin' cuss, though."

"A philosopher souffle," says Pinckney.

"Does it pay him well?" says I.

"It's no joke," says Pinckney. "The little his father left him is gone,
and what's coming from his Uncle Norton he doesn't get until the uncle
dies. Meanwhile he's flat broke and too proud to beg or borrow."

"Never tried trailin' a pay envelope, did he?" says I.

"But he doesn't know how," says Pinckney. "His talents don't seem to be
marketable. I am trying to think of something he could do. And did you
know, Shorty, he's taken quite a fancy to you?"

"They all do," says I; "but Marmaduke's easier to stand than most of 'em.
Next time I'm threatened with the willies I'll send for him and offer to
hire him by the hour."

As a matter of fact, I didn't have to; for he got into the habit of
blowin' into the studio every day or two, and swappin' a few of his airy
fancies for my mental short-arm jabs. He said it did him good, and
somehow or other it a