( Once, there was a tiny stain, and it was the size of a pea, he knows, he's eaten, him, plenty o' peas, cook makes them thrice a month for supper. Soup's what he makes, mighty fine, thank you, course, you don't be grateful for the rot, but, cook. Cook's trying.

...this fellow. He's also trying, only to meet the flat of Mr. Eames' palm, and do be excusing when it lands on the gentleman's back, paternally. You know. Just with a nudge. )

You's only a slack-jawed fool, we'll beat the sense in you, have you worries, ah? None be the worries, you just point your thing right and hit, like pissing.