"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!"