"It's cold turkey," I whispered.
"I've been in the refrigerator for ten minutes and I'm chilled to the bone," Bunch whispered back.
"Can we get our coin away from Ikey?" I asked.
"We can try," Bunch sneezed.
The next afternoon we had Ikey Schwartz for luncheon with us at the St. Astorbilt. The idea being to dazzle him and get a few of the iron men back.
"Leave everything to me," Bunch growled as we shaved our hats and Indian-filed to a trough.
"A quart of Happysuds," Bunch ordered. "How about it, Ikey?"
Ikey flashed a grin and tried to swallow his palate, so it wouldn't interfere with the wet spell suggested by Bunch.
Ikey belonged to the "dis, dose and dem" push.
Every long sentence he uttered was full of splintered grammar.