"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.