Jennings: Yes; but this is Christmas eve!
Raidler: And you agreed to bring the makings! Why, you grasping old note-shaver, you skinny old white bond-worm—
Jennings: This is not Christmas at all, this is a swindle, a hold-up, a crime! I’ll denounce you to the main finger!
Judge: You know the danger, suh, if you get drunk in this place—
Raidler: Drunk? Hell and blazes, what do you mean, drunk on one glass of punch?
Jennings: How would you know when I’m drunk?
Porter: The Colonel has certain standards of his own, Judge. If he were drunk, the air of this room would be full of fluttering white pigeons, emerging from those pigeon-holes now apparently full of mail; every postage-stamp would become a shining red or green eye, according to the denomination, winking cross-eyed if the stamp were canceled; a pink classic nymph would emerge from yon doorway and dance upon the table, treading lightly between the dishes; the tops of the shelves would be traversed by a company of beribboned cats, marching in stupendous aerial procession. A few things like that, and the Colonel would know that Christmas had come to stay.
Delacour (getting to his feet): Mr. Porter, Ah would sho’ly like to see those phenomena. Ah will see what Ah can do.
Raidler: Hurrah for the fat boy!
Jennings: Does your prison bootlegger work nights?