MARMADUKE SLIPS ONE OVER
And you'd almost think I could accumulate enough freaks, all by myself,
without havin' my friends pass theirs along, wouldn't you? Yet lemme tell
you what Pinckney rung up on me.
He comes into the Studio one day towin' a party who wears brown spats and
a brown ribbon to his shell rimmed eyeglasses, and leaves him planted in
a chair over by the window, where he goes to rubbin' his chin with a
silver-handled stick while we dive into the gym. for one of our little
half-hour sessions. Leaves him there without sayin' a word, mind you,
like you'd stand an umbrella in the corner!
"Who's the silent gazooks you run on the siding out front?" says I.
"Why," says Pinckney, "that's only Marmaduke."
"Only!" says I. "I should say Marmaduke was quite some of a name.
Anything behind it? He ain't a blank, is he?"
"Who, Marmaduke?" says he. "Far from it! In fact, he has a most
individual personality."
"That sounds good," says I; "but does it mean anything? Who is he,
anyway?"
"Ask him, Shorty, ask him," says Pinckney, and as he turns to put his
coat on the hanger I gets a glimpse of that merry eye-twinkle of his.
"Go on--I'm easy," says I. "I'd look nice, wouldn't I, holdin' a perfect
stranger up for his pedigree?"
"But I assure you he'd be pleased to give it," says Pinckney, "and, more
than that, I want to be there to hear it myself."
"Well, you're apt to strain your ears some listenin'," says I. "This
ain't my day for askin' fool questions."
You never can tell, though. We hadn't much more'n got through our mitt
exercise, and Pinckney was only half into his afternoon tea uniform, when
there's a 'phone call for him. And the next thing I know he's hustled
into his frock coat and rushed out.
Must have been five minutes later when I fin'lly strolls into the front
office, to find that mysterious Marmaduke is still holdin' down the chair
and gazin' placid out onto 42d-st. It looks like he'd been forgotten and
hadn't noticed the fact.
One of these long, loose jointed, languid actin' gents, Marmaduke is; the
kind that can drape themselves careless and comf'table over almost any
kind of furniture. He's a little pop eyed, his hair is sort of a faded
tan color, and he's whopper jawed on the left side; but beyond that he
didn't have any striking points of facial beauty. It's what you might
call an interestin' mug, though, and it's so full of repose that it seems
almost a shame to disturb him.
Someone had to notify him, though, that he'd overslept. I tried clearin'
my throat and shufflin' my feet to bring him to; but that gets no action
at all. So there was nothing for it but to go over and tap him on the
shoulder.
"Excuse me," says I, "but your friend has gone."
"Ah, quite so," says he, still starin' out of the window and rubbin' his
chin. "'Tis a way friends have. They come, and they go. Quite so."
"Nobody's debatin' that point," says I; "but just now I wa'n't speakin'
of friends in gen'ral. I was referrin' to Pinckney. He didn't leave any
word; but I suspicion he was called up by----"
"Thanks," breaks in Marmaduke. "I know. Mrs. Purdy-Pell consults him
about dinner favors--tremendous trifles, to be coped with only by a
trained intelligence. We meet at the club later."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" says I. "In that case, make yourself to home.
Have an evening paper?"
"Please take it away," says he. "I might be tempted to read about the
beastly stock market."
"Been taking a little flyer, eh?" says I.
"What, I?" says he. "Why, I haven't enough cash to buy a decent dinner.
But everybody you meet follows the market, you know. It's a contagious
disease."
"So?" says I. "Now I've been exposed a lot and haven't caught it very
hard."
"Gifted of the gods!" says he.
"Eh?" says I.
"I'm Marmaduke, you know," says he.
"I've heard that much," says I.
"To him that hath ears--mufflers," says he.
"Mufflers?" says I. "I guess I must be missin' some of my cues, Mister."
"Never care," says he. "Why cry over spilt milk when one can keep a
cat?"
"Look here!" says I. "Are you stringin' me, or am I stringin' you?"
"Of what use to fret the oracle?" says he. "They say silence is
golden--well, I've spent mine."
And, say, he had me doin' the spiral dip at that. I don't mind indulgin'
in a little foolish conversation now and then; but I hate to have it so
one sided. And, honest, so far as I figured, he might have been readin'
the label off a tea chest. So with that I counters with one of my rough
and ready comebacks.
"Marmaduke--did you say it was?" says I. "If you did, where's the can?"
"By Jove! That's rather good, though!" says he, rappin' the floor with
his stick. "A little crude; but the element is there. Brava!
Bravissimo!"
"Stirred up the pigeons, anyway," says I.
"Pigeons?" says he, lookin' 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 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.
"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 always chirked me up too.
And the more I saw of Marmaduke, the less I thought about the bats. Get
under the surface, and he wa'n't nutty at all. He just had a free flow of
funny thoughts and odd ways of expressin' 'em. Most of us are so shy of
lettin' go of any sentiments that can't be had on a rubber stamp that it
takes a mighty small twist to put a person in the queer class.
However, business is business, and I'd just as soon Marmaduke hadn't been
on hand the other day when Pyramid Gordon comes in with one of his
heavyweight broker friends. Course, I didn't know anything about the
stranger; but I know Pyramid, and his funnybone was fossilized years ago.
Marmaduke don't offer to make any break, though. He takes his fav'rite
seat over by the window and goes to gazin' out and rubbin' his chin.
Seems that Mr. Gordon and his friend was both tangled up in some bank
chain snarl that was worryin' 'em a lot. Things wouldn't be comin' to a
head for forty-eight hours or so, and meantime all they could do was sit
tight and wait.
Now, Pyramid's programme in a case of that kind is one I made out for him
myself. It's simple. He comes to the studio for an hour of the roughest
kind of work we can put through. After that he goes to his Turkish bath,
and by the time his rubber is through with him he's ready for a private
room and a ten hours' snooze. That's what keeps the gray out of his
cheeks, and helps him look a Grand Jury summons in the face without goin'
shaky.
So it's natural he recommends the same course to this Mr. Gridley that
he's brought along. Another thick-neck, Gridley is, with the same flat
ears as Pyramid, only he's a little shorter and not quite so rugged
around the chin.
"Here we are, now," says Pyramid, "and here's Professor McCabe, Gridley.
If he can't make you forget your troubles, you will be the first on
record. Come on in and see."
But Gridley he shakes his head. "Nothing so strenuous for me," says he.
"My heart wouldn't stand it. I'll wait for you, though."
"Better come in and watch, then," says I, with a side glance at
Marmaduke.
"No, thanks; I shall be quite as uncomfortable here," says Gridley, and
camps his two hundred and ten pounds down in my desk chair.
It was a queer pair to leave together,--this Gridley gent, who was
jugglin' millions, and gettin' all kinds of misery out of it, and
Marmaduke, calm and happy, with barely one quarter to rub against
another. But of course there wa'n't much chance of their findin' anything
in common to talk about.
Anyway, I was too busy for the next hour to give 'em a thought, and by
the time I'd got Pyramid breathin' like a leaky air valve and glowin'
like a circus poster all over, I'd clean forgot both of 'em. So, when I
fin'lly strolls out absent minded, it's something of a shock to find 'em
gettin' acquainted, Marmaduke tiltin' back careless in his chair, and
Gridley eyin' him curious.
It appears that Pyramid's friend has got restless, discovered Marmaduke,
and proceeded to try to tell him how near he comes to bein' a nervous
wreck.
"Ever get so you couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't think of but one
thing over and over?" he was just sayin'.
"To every coat of arms, the raveled sleeve of care," observes Marmaduke
sort of casual.
"Hey?" says Gridley, facin' round on him sharp.
"As the poet puts it," Marmaduke rattles on,--
"You cannot gild the lily,
Nor can you wet the sea;
Pray tell me of my Bonnie,
But bring her not to me!"
"Say, what the howling hyenas are you spouting about?" snorts Gridley,
growin' purple back of the ears. "Who in thunder are you?"
"Don't!" says I, holdin' up a warnin' hand. But I'm too late. Marmaduke
has bobbed up smilin'.
"A chip on the current," says he. "I'm Marmaduke, you know. No offense
meant. And you were saying----"
"Huh!" grunts Gridley, calmin' down. "Can't wet the sea, eh? Not so bad,
young man. You can't keep it still, either. It's the only thing that puts
me to sleep when I get this way."
"Break, break, break--I know," says Marmaduke.
"That's it," says Gridley, "hearing the surf roar. I'd open up my
seashore cottage just for the sake of a good night's rest, if it wasn't
for the blasted seagulls. You've heard 'em in winter, haven't you, how
they squeak around?"
"It's their wing hinges," says Marmaduke, solemn and serious.
"Eh?" says Gridley, gawpin' at him.
"Squeaky wing hinges," says Marmaduke. "You should oil them."
And, say, for a minute there, after Gridley had got the drift of that
tomfool remark, I didn't know whether he was goin' to throw Marmaduke
through the window, or have another fit. All of a sudden, though, he
begins poundin' his knee.
"By George! but that's rich, young man!" says he. "Squeaky gulls' wing
hinges! Haw-haw! Oil 'em! Haw-haw! How did you ever happen to think of
it, eh?"
"One sweetly foolish thought," says Marmaduke. "I'm blessed with little
else."
"Well, it's a blessing, all right," says Gridley. "I have 'em sometimes;
but not so good as that. Say, I'll have to tell that to Gordon when he
comes out. No, he wouldn't see anything in it. But see here, Mr.
Marmaduke, what have you got on for the evening, eh?"
"My tablets are cleaner than my cuffs," says he.
"Good work!" says Gridley. "What about coming out and having dinner with
me?"
"With you or any man," says Marmaduke. "To dine's the thing."
With that, off they goes, leavin' Pyramid in the gym. doorway strugglin'
with his collar. Course, I does my best to explain what's happened.
"But who was the fellow?" says Mr. Gordon.
"Just Marmaduke," says I, "and if you don't want to get your thinker tied
in a double bowknot you'll let it go at that. He's harmless. First off I
thought his gears didn't mesh; but accordin' to Pinckney he's some kind
of a philosopher."
"Gridley has a streak of that nonsense in him too," says Pyramid. "I only
hope he gets it all out of his system by to-morrow night."
Well, from all I could hear he did; for there wa'n't any scarehead
financial story in the papers, and I guess the bank snarl must have been
straightened out all right. What puzzled me for a few days, though, was
to think what had become of Marmaduke. He hadn't been around to the
studio once; and Pinckney hadn't heard a word from him, either. Pinckney
had it all framed up how Marmaduke was off starvin' somewhere.
It was only yesterday, too, that I looks up from the desk to see
Marmaduke, all got up in an entire new outfit, standin' there smilin' and
chipper.
"Well, well!" says I. "So you didn't hit the breadline, after all!"
"Perchance I deserved it," says he; "but there came one from the forest
who willed otherwise."
"Ah, cut the josh for a minute," says I, "and tell us what you landed!"
"Gladly," says he. "I have been made the salaried secretary of the S. O.
S. G. W. H."
"Is it a new benefit order," says I, "or what?"
"The mystic letters," says he, "stand for the Society for Oiling Squeaky
Gulls' Wing Hinges. Mr. Gridley is one member; I am the other."
And, say, you may not believe it, but hanged if it wa'n't a fact! He has
a desk in Gridley's private office, and once a day he shows up there and
scribbles off a foolish thought on the boss's calendar pad. That's all,
except that he draws down good money for it.
"Also I have had word," says Marmaduke, "that my aged Uncle Norton is
very low of a fever."
"Gee!" says I. "Some folks are born lucky, though!"
"And others," says he, "in the Forest of Arden."