I can picture his satisfaction on hearing it." -- "Golly, Dick, that's no mopoke!" was Purdy's comment as they emerged into the rain-swept street.

"A crafty devil, if ever I see'd one." "Henry Ocock seems to me to be a singularly able man," replied Mahony drily.

To his thinking, Purdy had cut a poor figure during the visit: he had said no intelligent word, but had lounged lumpishly in his chair--the very picture of the country man come up to the metropolis--and, growing tired of this, had gone like a restless child to thrum his fingers on the panes.
"Oh, you bet! He'll slither you through." "What?
Do you insinuate there's any need for slithering ...

as you call it ?" cried Mahony.
"Why, Dick, old man....

And as long as he gets you through, what does it matter ?" "It matters to me, sir!" The rain, a tropical deluge, was over by the time they reached the hollow.