“Gee! If youse ain’t goin’ to call de cops, I’ll talk till de chickens roost again.”
“Talking, however,” said Jimmy, “is dry work. Are you a teetotaller?”
“What’s dat? Me? On your way, boss!”
“Then you’ll find a pretty decent whisky in that decanter. Help yourself. I think you’ll like it.”
A musical gurgling, followed by a contented sigh, showed that the statement had been tested and proved correct.
“Cigar?” asked Jimmy.
“Me fer dat,” assented his visitor.
“Take a handful.”
“I eats dem alive,” said the marauder jovially, gathering in the spoils.
Jimmy crossed his legs.