"On the sauce, his saloon talk is wiser than My scholar's treatise. On the con, he outwits Himself, and yet portrays his downward spiral into Beefsteak mines, mansions in the Grampian Hills, Dollars falling from a sky blue as a copper chip. His mordant eye schemes afresh from every reverse. Why this sudden rapport with his profound failure To eat ice cream neatly, refill a flask unnoticed, Escape the flypaper floor of Baby Leroy's molasses? Jargon-mouthed, rum-rank-breathed, reprobate uncle. Your legacy of irrascible, bulbous disrepute is Far sweeter, I swear, than Phyllis's daffodils. W.C., I am staring you in the eye tonight. Only the gunning cars and lonely trains Punctuate our confrontation, you and I, Two confidence men on confidential terms."