Jennings: He let his bank down for two millions, and has it all salted away—
Delacour: Ah tell you that is rubbish!
Jennings: Therefore he never had to live on the range like you and me; he has apartments in Bankers’ Row—palatial rooms with a bed and desk and all modern conveniences—a valet to press his striped trousers—mail three times a day—telegraph service direct from the warden’s office—
Delacour: Nonsense, Ah tell you!
Jennings (with teasing delight): Money will buy anything in prison, Bill—just as outside! Make yourself agreeable to these powerful magnates, and they’ll invite you to the feasts they spread every Sunday afternoon. Delacour has built a complete kitchenette behind the walls of the postoffice, and there he waves his magic wand—all the rest of the week your mouth waters at the memory of his sauces and flavorings—red-hot with chili peppers, Creole style. The Judge mixes drinks, and they’re Creole style, red-hotter!
Judge: You gabble like a turkey, suh. I need medical attention, Ah tell you.
Porter: What is it, Judge?
Jennings: Nothing but alcoholism, you may be sure—tasting his own toddies before he serves them—
Judge: Ah have a prescription, suh. (hands paper to Porter)
Delacour: And Ah too. (he also hands paper)