Raidler: Me? I live off the bankers, as they live off the rest of the world.
Jennings: Delacour, when you puff up like that, your eyes are like two pale gooseberries imbedded in a mask of red putty. You have stuffed yourself.
Delacour: Did you think Ah cooked that meal to watch you stuff yourself?
Jennings: You’re the living image of one of the passengers in my first hold-up, on the Santa Fe. It was at night, and this fat, solemn snoozer had managed to get into his frock-tailed coat and high silk hat—but all the rest of him was pajamas and bunions. When I dug into his pockets, I expected to drag out a block of gold-mine stock or an armful of government bonds, but all I found was a little boy’s French harp about four inches long. It made me mad, and I stuck the harp against his mouth. “If you can’t pay, play,” I says. “I can’t play,” says he. “Then learn right off quick,” I says, and let him smell the end of my gun-barrel. So he caught hold of the harp, and turned as red as you, and blew a dinky little tune I used to hear when I was a kid:
Prettiest little gal in the country—oh!
Mammy and Daddy told me so.
I made him play it all the time I was in the car: some day, when you and I get out, Delacour, I’ll call on your bank and teach it to you.
Delacour: Maybe you’ve already taught it to me. Maybe Ah was that passenger.
Raidler: Maybe he was!
Joe (with wide-open eyes): Was you, boss?